B 


Ike 

VAGRANT  DUKE 


BY  GEORGE  GIBBS 

The  Vagrant  Duke 
The  Splendid  Outcast 

The  Black  Stone 

The  Golden  Bough 

The  Secret  Witness 

Paradise  Garden 

The  Yellow  Dove 

The  Flaming  Sword 

Madcap 

The  Silent  Battle 

The  Maker  of  Opportunities 

The  Forbidden  Way 

The  Bolted  Door 

Tony's  Wife 
The  Medusa  Emerald 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


174  F 


PETER   STRUCK   HIM    FULL   ON   THE   HEAD 


VAGRANT  DUKE 

BY 

GEORGE  GIBBS 

AUTHOB  OF  "THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST,"  "THE  YELLOW  DOVE," 
"THE  SECRET  WITNESS,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,   BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1920,  by  The  Story  Press  Corporation 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES   OF    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

PROLOGUE       1 

I  INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS       ....  15 

II  NEW  YORK    .........  27 

III  THE  OVERALL  GIRL 42 

IV  THE   JOB 56 

V  NEW  ELEMENTS 71 

VI  THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR    .       .'      .       .        .        .  88 

VII  Music      .       .       .       .       ....        .       .105 

VIII  THE   PLACARD 121 

IX  SHAD  Is  UNPLEASANT 137 

X  "HAWK" 153 

XI  ANCIENT   HISTORY 170 

XII  CONFESSION 186 

XIII  THE  CHASE >  ; ;   .       .  207 

XIV  Two  LETTERS 226 

XV  SUPERMAN     .........  236 

XVI  IDENTIFICATION 253 

XVII  PETER  BECOMES  A  CONSPIRATOR     ....  266 

XVIII  FACE  TO  FACE     ,                                                     ,  276 


2135781 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX     YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 291 

XX     THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 308 

XXI     THE  INFERNO 326 

XXII     RETRIBUTION 34,3 

XXIII     A  VISITOR     ....  357 


The 

VAGRANT  DUKE 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


PROLOGUE 

At  the  piano  a  man  sat  playing  the  "Revolutionary 
Etude"  of  Chopin.  The  room  was  magnificent  in  its 
proportions,  its  furnishings  were  massive,  its  paneled  oak 
walls  were  hung  with  portraits  of  men  and  womtfn  in  the 
costumes  of  a  bygone  day.  Through  the  lofty  windows, 
the  casements  of  which  were  open  to  the  evening  sky 
there  was  a  vista  of  forest  and  meadow-land  stretching 
interminably  to  the  setting  sun.  The  mosquelike  cupola 
of  a  village  church,  a  few  versts  distant,  glimmered  like 
a  pearl  in  the  dusky  setting  of  wooded  hills,  and  close 
by  it,  here  and  there,  tiny  spirals  of  opalescent  smoke 
marked  the  dwellings  of  Zukovo  village. 

But  the  man  at  the  piano  was  detached,  a  being  apart 
from  this  scene  of  quiet,  absorbed  in  his  piano,  which  gave 
forth  the  turbulence  which  had  been  in  the  soul  of  the 
great  composer.  The  expression  upon  the  dark  face  of 
the  young  musician  was  rapt  and  eager,  until  he  crashed 
the  chords  to  their  triumphant  conclusion  when  he  sank 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  gasp,  his  head  bent  forward  upon 
his  breast,  his  dark  gaze  fixed  upon  the  keys  which,  still 
echoed  with  the  tumult. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  door  at  the  side  of  the 
room  was  opened  and  a  white-haired  man  in  purple  livery 
entered  and  stood  m  silence  regarding  rather  wistfully 
the  man  at  the  piano,  who  raised  his  head  abruptly  like 
one  startled  from  a  dream. 

1 


PROLOGUE 


"What  is  it,  Vasili?"  asked  the  musician. 
The  servant  approached  softly  a  few  steps. 
'I  did  not  wish  to  intrude,  Highness,  but- 


As  the  old  servant  hesitated,  the  young  man  shrugged 
and  rose,  disclosing  a  tall,  straight  figure,  clad  in  a  dark 
blue  blouse,  loose  trousers  and  brown  boots  liberally  be- 
spattered with  mud.  TJie  glow  of  the  sun  which  shot 
across  his  face  as  he  came  forward  into  the  light,  showed 
swarthy  features,  level  brows,  a  straight  nose,  a  well 
turned  chin,  a  small  mustache  and  a  generous  mouth  which 
revealed  a  capacity  for  humor.  He  was  quite  calm  now, 
and  the  tones  of  his  voice  were  almost  boyish  in  their  con- 
fidence and  gayety. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Vasili?"  he  repeated.  "You  have 
the  air  of  one  with  much  on  your  conscience.  Out  with  it. 
Has  Sacha  been  fighting  with  you  again?" 

"No,  Master,  not  Sacha"  said  the  old  man  clearing 
his  throat  nervously,  "it  is  something  worse — much  worse 
than  Sacha." 

"Impossible!"  said  the  other  with  a  laugh  as  he  took  up 
a  cigarette  from  the  table.  "Nothing  could  be  worse  than 
a  Russian  cook  when  she  gets  into  a  rage " 

"But  it  is,  Master — something  worse — much  worse " 

"Really!  You  alarm  me"  The  Grand  Duke  threw 
himself  into  an  armchair  and  inhaled  luxuriously  of  his 
cigarette.  And  then  with  a  shrug,  "Well?" 

The  old  man  came  a  pace  or  two  nearer  muttering 
hoarsely,  "They've  broken  out  in  the  village  again,"  he 
gasped. 

The  Grand  (Duke's  brow  contracted  suddenly. 

"H-m.     When  did  this  happen?" 

"Last  night.  And  this  morning  they  burned  the 
stables  of  Prince  Galitzin  and  looted  the  castle." 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 


PROLOGUE 


"You  are  sure  of  this?" 

"Yes,  Master.  The  word  was  brought  by  Serge  An- 
driev  less  than  ten  minutes  ago." 

He  took  a  few  rapid  paces  up  and  down  the  room,  stop- 
ping by  the  open  window  and  staring  out. 

"Fools!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  Then  turning 
to  the  old  servitor,  "But,  Vasili — why  is  it  that  I  have 
heard  nothing  of  this?  To-day  Conrad,  the  forester, 
said  nothing  to  me.  And  the  day  before  yesterday  in  the 
village  the  people  swept  off  their  caps  to  me — as  in  the 
old  days.,  I  could  have  sworn  everything  would  be  peace- 
ful at  Zukovo — at  least,  for  the  present "  he  added  as 

though  in  an  afterthought. 

**/  pray  God  that  may  be  true,"  muttered  Vasili  un- 
certainly. And  then  with  unction,  "In  their  hearts,  they 
still  love  you,  Highness.  They  are  children — your  chil- 
dren, their  hearts  still  full  of  reverence  for  the  Grand 
Duke  Peter  Nicholaevitch  in  wlwm  runs  the  same  blood 
as  that  which  ran  in  the  sacred  being  of  the  Little  Father 
— but  their  brains!  They  are  drunk  with  the  poison 
poured  into  their  minds  by  the  Committeemen  from  Mos- 
cow." 

"Ah"  eagerly,  "they  returned?" 

"Last  night,"  replied  the  old  man  wagging  his  head. 
"And  your  people  forgot  all  that  you  had  said  to  them — 
all  that  tliey  owe  to  you.  They  are  mad,"  he  finished 
despairingly,  "mad!" 

The  Grand  Duke  had  folded  his  arms  and  was  staring 
out  of  tlie  window  toward  the  white  dome  of  tJie  church 
now  dyed  red  like  a  globule  of  blood  in  the  sunset. 

The  old  man  watched  him  for  a  moment,  all  the  fealty 
of  his  many  years  of  service  in  his  gaze  and  attitude. 

"I  do  not  like  the  look  of  things,  Highness.  What  does 
it  matter  how  good  their  hearts  are  if  their  brains  are 
bad?" 

3 


PROLOGUE 


"I  must  go  and  talk  with  them,  Vasili"  said  the  Grand 
Duke  quietly. 

TJie  old  man  took  a  step  forward. 

"If  I  might  make  so  free " 

"Speak " 

"Not  to-night,  Master — — ' 

"Why  not?" 

"It  will  be  dangerous.  Last  night  their  -voices  were 
raised  even  against  you." 

"Me!  Why?  Have  I  not  done  everything  I  could  to 
help  them?  I  am  their  friend — because  I  believe  in  their 
cause:  and  they  will  get  their  rights  too  but  not  by  burn- 
ing and  looting " 

"And  murder,  Master.  Two  of  Prince  Galitzin's  forest- 
ers were  killed" 

The  Grand  Duke  turned.  "That's  bad.  Murder  in 
Zukovo!"  He  flicked  his  extinguished  cigarette  out  of  the 
window  and  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"Go,  Vasili.  I  want  to  think.  I  will  ring  if  I  need 
you" 

"You  will  not  go  to  Zukovo  to-night?" 

"I  don't  know." 

And  with  another  gesture  he  waved  the  servant  away. 

When  Vasili  had  gone,  the  Grand  Duke  sat,  his  legs 
across  the  chair  by  the  window,  his  arms  folded  along  its 
back  while  his  dark  eyes  peered  out,  beyond  the  hills  and 
forests,  beyond  the  reddened  dome  of  the  village  church 
into  the  past  where  his  magnificent  father  Nicholas 
Petrovitch  held  feudal  sway  over  all  the  land  within  his 
vision  and  his  father's  fathers  from  the  time  of  his  own 
great  namesake  held  all  Russia  in  the  hollow  of  their 
hands. 

The  Grand  Duke's  eyes  were  hard  and  bright  above  the 
slightly  prominent  cheek  bones,  the  vestiges  of  his  Oriental 
origin,  but  there  was  something  of  his  English  mother  too 
4 


PROLOGUE 


in  the  contours  of  his  chm  and  lips,  which  tempered  the) 
hardness  of  his  expression.  The  lines  at  his  brows  were 
not  the  savage  marks  of  anger,  or  the  vengefulness  that 
had  characterized  the  pitiless  blood  which  ran  m  his 
veins,  but  rather  were  they  lines  of  disappointment,  of 
perplexity  at  the  problem  that  confronted  him,  and  pity 
for  his  people  who  did  not  know  where  to  turn  for  guid- 
ance. He  still  believed  them  to  be  his  people,  a  heritage 
from,  his  lordly  parent,  his  children,  who  were  responsible 
to  him  and  to  whom  he  was  responsible.  It  was  a  habit 
of  thought,  inalienable,  the  product  of  the  ages.  But  it 
was  the  calm  philosophy  of  his  English  mother  that  had 
first  given  him  his  real  sense  of  obligation  to  them,  her 
teachings,  even  before  the  war  began,  that  had  shown  him 
how  terrible  were  the  problems  that  confronted  his  future. 

His  service  m  the  Army  had  opened  his  eyes  still  wider 
and  when  Russia  had  deserted  her  allies  he  had  returned 
to  Zukovo  to  begin  the  work  of  reconstruction  in  the  ways 
his  awakened  conscience  had  dictated.  He  had  visited 
their  homes,  offered  them  counsel,  given  them  such  money 
as  he  could  spare,  and  had,  he  thought,  become  their  friend 
as  well  as  their  hereditary  guardian.  All  had  gone  well 
at  first.  They  had  listened  to  him,  accepted  his  advice 
and  his  money  and  renewed  their  fealty  under  the  new  or- 
der of  things,  vowing  that  whatever  happened  elsewhere 
in  Russia,  blood  and  agony  and  starvation  should  not 
visit  Zukovo. 

But  the  news  that  Vasili  brought  was  disquietmg.  It 
meant  that  the  minds  of  his  people  were  again  disturbed. 
And  the  fact  that  Prince  Galitzin  had  always  been  hated 
made  the  problems  the  Grand  Duke  faced  none  the  less 
difficult.  For  his  people  had  burned,  pillaged  and  killed. 
They  had  betrayed  him.  And  he  had  learned  in  the  Army 
what  fire  and  the  smell  of  blood  could  do.  .  .  . 

With  a  quick  nod  of  resolution  lie  rose.  He  would  go 
5 


PROLOGUE 


to  them.     He  knew  their  leaders.     They  would  listen  to 
him.    They  must  listen.  .  .  . 

He  closed  the  piano  carefully,  putting  away  the  loose 
sheets  of  music,  picked  up  his  cap  and  heavy  riding  crop 
from  the  divan,  on  his  way  to  the  door,  pausing,  his  hand 
on  the  bell-rope  as  a  thought  brought  a  deeper  frown  to 
his  brow.  .  .  .  Why  had  Conrad  Grabar,  his  chief  for* 
ester,  said  nothing  to-day?  He  must  have  known — for 
news  such  as  this  travels  from  leaf  to  leaf  through  the 
forest.  Conrad!  And  yet  he  would  have  sworn  by  the 
faithfulness  of  his  old  friend  and  hunting  companion. 
Perhaps  Conrad  had  not  known.  .  .  . 

The  Grand  Duke  pulled  the  bell-rope,  then  went  to  the 
window  again  and  stood  as  though  listening  for  the  voices 
of  the  woods.  Silence.  The  sun  had  sunk,  a  dull  red  ball, 
and  the  dusk  was  falling  swiftly.  The  aspens  below  his 
window  quivered  slightly,  throwing  their  white  leaves  up- 
wards as  though  in  pain.  The  stately  pines  that  he  loved, 
mute,  solemn,  changeless,  filled  the  air  with  balsam*,  but 
they  gave  no  answer  to  his  problem.  It  was  difficult  to 
believe  that,  there,  in  the  restless  souls  of  men  war  could 
rage.  And  yet  .  .  . 

He  peered  out  more  intently.  Beyond  the  pine  forest, 
a  murky  cloud  was  rising.  A  storm?  Hardly.  For  the 
sun  had  set  in  a  clear  sky.  But  there  was  a  cloud  surely, 
growing  in  darkness  and  intensity.  He  could  see  it  more 
clearly  now,  billowing  upward  in  grim  portent. 

The  Grand  Duke  started  and  then  stared  again.  The 
cloud  was  of  smoke.  Through  the  woods,  tiny  lights  were 
sparkling,  picked  out  with  ominous  brilliancy  against  the 
velvet  dusk.  Peter  Nicholaevitch  leaned  far  out  of  the 
window,  straining  his  ears  to  listen.  And  now  he  seemed 
to  hear  the  crackle  of  flames,  the  distant  sound  of  hoarse 
voices,  shouting  and  singing. 
6 


PROLOGUE 


And  while  he  still  listened,  aware  that  a  great  crisis 
had  come  into  his  life,  there  was  a  commotion  just  below 
hirn^  the  sound  of  voices  close  at  hand  and  he  saw  a  man 
some  running  from  the  woods,  approaching  the  gateway 
of  the  Castle. 

He  recognized  him  by  the  gray  beard  and  thickset 
figure.  It  was  Boris  Rylov,  the  Huntsman,  and  as  he  ran 
he  shouted  to  some  one  in  the  courtyard  below.  The 
Grand  Duke  made  out  the  words : 

"They're  burnmg  the  Hunting  Lodge — where  is  the 
Master ?" 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  waited  at  the  window  no  longer,  but 
ran  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  flight  of  stairs  into 
the  great  hall  below.  For  he  knew  what  had  happened] 
now.  The  Red  Terror  had  come  to  Zukovo. 

He  went  out  to  the  garden  terrace,  crossing  quickly  to, 
the  courtyard  where  he  met  the  frightened  group  of  ser- 
vants that  had  assembled. 

Boris,  the  Huntsman,  much  out  of  breath  was  waving 
his  arms  excitedly  toward  the  cloud  of  smoke  rising  above, 
the  pine  trees,  now  tinged  a  dirty  orange  color  from  be- 
neath. 

"They  came  from  all  directions,  Master,"  he  gasped, 
"like  the  black  flies  upon  a  dead  horse — hundreds — thou- 
sands of  them  from  the  village  and  all  the  country  round. 
I  talked  with  tlie  first  that  came,  Anton  Lensky,  Gleb 
Saltykov,  Michael  Kuprin  and  Conrad  Grabar " 

"Conrad /"  gasped  the  Grand  Duke. 

"Yes,  Highness"  muttered  Boris,  his  head  bowed, 
"Conrad  Grabar.  They  tried  to  restrain  me.  Michael 
Kuprin  1  struck  upon  the  head  with  a  stick — and  then 
I  fled — to  warn  your  Highness — that  they  mean  to  come 
hither." 

The  face  of  the  Grand  Duke,  a  trifle  pale  under  its  tan, 
was  set  in  stern  lines,  but  there  was  no  fear  in  his  man- 
7 


PROLOGUE 


ner  as  lie  quickly  questioned,  his  eyes  eagerly  scrutinizing 
the  frightened  men  and  women-  about  him  while  he  spoke  to 
them  with  cool  decision. 

"Thanks,  Friend  Rylov — you  have  done  me  a  service  I 
shall  not  forget"  Then  to  the  others,  "If  there  are  any 
of  you  who  fear  to  remain  with  me,  you  may  go.  I  can- 
not believe  that  tliey  will  come  to  Zukovo  Castle,  but  we 
will  close  the  gate  to  the  courtyard  at  once.  I  will  talk 
with  tJiem  from  the  terrace  wall" 

"Master!  Highness!"  broke  in  the  Huntsman  violently, 
"you  do  not  understand.  You  cannot  stay  here.  They 
are  mad.  They  will  kill  you.  It  is  for  that 


"Nevertheless — I  mean  to  stay ! 

"It  is  death " 

"Go  thou,  then,  and  Vastti,  and  Ivan.  For  before  they 
burn  Zukovo,  I  mean  to  talk  with  them 

"It  is  madness /" 

"Come,  Highness"  broke  in  Leo  Garshin,  the  head- 
groom,  eagerly,  "I  wul  put  the  saddle  upon  Vera,  and  you 
can  go  out  of  the  iron  gate  from  the  stable-yard  into  the 
forest.  Nothing  can  catch  you  and  you  can  reach  the 

"No,  Leo "  put  in  the  Grand  Duke  kindly.    "I  shall 

stay" 

The  servants  glanced  at  one  another,  appalled  at  the 
Master's  attitude.  Some  of  them  had  already  disappeared 
into  the  Castle  but  others,  less  timorous,  had  already 
rushed  to  close  tlie  courtyard  gate. 

"You  say  they  are  many,  Friend  Rylov?"  he  asked 
again. 

"As  the  hairs  of  your  head,  Master — from  Ivanovna, 
Jaroslav — everywhere — and  women,  Highness,  more  ter- 
rible than  the  men " 

"And  tJie  leaders ?" 

8 


PROLOGUE 


Dmitri  Sidorov  of  the  Zemstvo  <md  Michael  Kositzin 
and  Anton  Lensky.  See,  yonder!  Where  the  road  turns 
from  the  clearing — they  come!" 

The  keen  eyes  of  Boris  saw  further  through  the  forest 
than  those  of  most  men  but  in  a  moment  those  of  the 
Grand  Duke  Peter  confirmed  him.  Figures  were  moving  m 
the  twilight,  along  the  roads  and  bypaths. 

To  Peter  Nicholaevitch  they  seemed  like  a  great  river 
which  had  flooded  over  its  banks  seeking  new  levels.  Be- 
hind them  the  flames  from,  the  wooden  hunting  lodge 
roared  upward  painting  a  lurid  sky.  He  saw  that  the 
flood  came  rapidly,  and  above  the  roar  of  the  flames  came 
the  sound  of  voices  singing  the  Russian  version  of  the 
"Marseillaise."  The  Grand  Duke  stood  at  the  terrace 
wall  watching  their  approach.  He  knew  that  if  they 
meant  to  attack  the  Castle  the  gate  could  not  hold  long, 
but  he  had  hope  that  he  might  still  be  able  to  prevail  upon 
tliem  to  listen  to  him.  In  a  moment  they  saw  him  and 
began  running  forward  toward  the  courtyard  gate.  He 
recognized  individuals  now — Anton  Lensky,  Michael  Ku- 
prin,  with  his  head  tied  in  a  dirty  handkerchief — and 
Conrad  Grabar.  The  defection  of  his  old  instructor  in 
wood-lore  disturbed  him.  Conrad  must  have  known  what 
was  to  happen  and  he  had  said  nothing.  If  Conrad  had 
turned  against  him,  what  hope  had  he  of  prevailing 
against  the  others? 

The  singing  died  away  and  m  its  place,  shouts  and 
cries  burst  forth  in  a  bedlam.  "Open  the  gate!"  "Let 
us  in!" 

The  Grand  Duke  had  heard  that  note  in  men's  voices 
in  the  Carpathian  passes,  and  he  knew  what  it  meant,  but 
while  his  gaze  sought  out  the  fat  figure  of  Michael  Kosit- 
zin  who  was  the  leader  of  the  uprising,  he  held  up  his  hand 
for  silence. 

There  was  a  roar  of  voices. 
9 


PROLOGUE 


"Peter  Nicolaevitch  wishes  to  speak." 

"It  is  our  turn  to  speak  now" 

"Nasha  pora  prishla"  ( our  time  has  come) . 

"Let  the  little  master  speak." 

"We  know  no  little  masters  here!" 

"No,  nor  old  ones!" 

"Smiert  Bourjouiam"  (Death  to  the  bourgeoisie). 

But  as  the  young  Grand  Duke  began  to  speak  the 
voices  of  the  most  rabid  of  the  peasants  were  hushed  for 
a  moment  by  the  others. 

"My  friends  and  my  children,"  he  began,  "one  word  be- 
fore you  do  something  that  you  will  forever  regret.  I  am 
your  friend.  I  am  young — of  the  new  generation.  I 
have  kept  abreast  of  the  new  thought  of  the  time  and  I 
believe  in  the  New  Life  that  is  for  you  and  for  us  all.  I 
have  proved  it  to  you  by  bringing  the  New  Life  to  Zukovo 
by  peaceful  means,  by  friendliness  and  brotherhood  while 
other  parts  of  Russia  near  by  are  in  agony  and  darkness." 
(Cries  of  "That  is  true")  "It  was  in  my  heart  that  I 
had  brought  the  Revolution  to  Zukovo,  a  Revolution 
against  the  old  order  of  things  which  can  be  no  more,  im- 
planting in  you  the  strong  seeds  of  Peace  and  Brother- 
hood which  would  kill  out  the  ugly  weeds  of  violence  and 
enmity." 

Here  a  hoarse  voice  rang  out:  "Fire — only  fire  can 
clean."  Then  the  reply  of  a  woman,  "Yes,  Tovaristchi, 
it  is  the  only  way." 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  tried  to  seek  out  the  speakers  with 
his  gaze.  One  of  them  was  Michael  Kuprin  whom  when  a 
child  the  Grand  Duke  had  seen  flogged  in  this  very  court- 
yard. 

"There  are  sins  of  the  past,"  he  went  on,  raising  his 
voice  against  the  low  murmur  of  the  mob,  "many  sins 
against  you,  but  one  sin  does  not  wash  out  another.  Mur- 
der, rapine,  vengeance  will  never  bring  peace  to  Zukovo. 
10 


PROLOGUE 


What  you  do  to-day  will  be  visited  on  you  to-morrow.  I 
pray  that  you  w&l  listen  to  me.  I  have  fought  for  you 
and  with  you — with  Gleb  Saltykov  and  Anton  Lensky, 
agavnst  the  return  of  Absolutism  in  Russia.  The  old 
order  of  things  is  gone.  Do  not  stain  the  new  with 
crime  in  Zukovo.  I  beseech  you  to  disperse — return  to 
your  homes  and  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow  and  if  there 
are  wrongs  I  will  set  them  right.  You  have  believed  in 
me  in  the  past.  Believe  in  me  now  and  all  may  yet  be  well 
in  Zukovo.  Go,  my  friends,  before  it  is  too  late " 

The  crowd  wavered,  murmuring.  But  just  then  a  shot 
rang  out  and  the  cap  of  the  Grand  Duke  twitched  around 
on  his  head. 

A  roar  went  up  from  near  the  gate,  "Nasha  pora 
prishla!  Break  in  the  gate!"  cried  the  voices  and  there 
were  those  of  women  among  them  shouting  "Tovaristchi ! 
Forward!" 

Over  the  heads  of  those  in  the  front  ranks,  Peter 
Nicholaevitch  saw  some  men  bringing  from  tlie  forest  the 
heavy  trunk  of  a  felled  pine  tree.  They  meant  to  break 
down  the  gate.  He  knew  that  he  had  failed  but  st'ul  he 
stood  upright  facing  tJiem.  Another  shot,  the  bullet  this 
time  grazing  his  left  arm.  The  sting  of  it  angered  him. 

"Cowards!"  he  yelled,  shaking  his  fist  at  them.  "Cow- 
ards!" 

A  volley  followed  but  no  other  bullets  struck  him.  Be- 
hind him  in  the  Castle  doorway  he  heard  the  voice  of 
Boris  Rylov,  calling  to  him  hoarsely. 

"Come,  Master.  For  the  love  of  God!  There  is  yet 
timer 

There  was  a  crash  of  the  heavy  timbers  at  the  gate. 

"Come,  Master " 

With  a  shrug  Peter  Nicholaevitch  turned  and  walked 
across  the  terrace  toward  the  Castle-  "Bolvany !"  he  mut- 
tered.   "I've  finished  with  them" 
11 


PROLOGUE 

Boris  and  Vasil  stood  just  within  the  door,  pleading 
with  him  to  hurry,  and  together  they  made  their  way 
through  the  deserted  kitchens  and  over  past  the  vegetable 
gardens  to  the  stables,  where  Leo  Garshin  awaited  them, 
the  saddles  on  several  horses.  Behind  them  they  could 
now  hear  the  triumphant  cries  as  the  courtyard  gate 
crashed  in. 

"Hurry,  Master!"  cried  Garshin  eagerly. 

"Where  are  the  others?"  asked  the  Grand  Duke. 

"Gone,  Highness.     They  have  fled." 

Boris  Rylov  was  peering  out  past  an  iron  door  into  the 
forest. 

"There  is  no  one  there?"  asked  Garshin. 

"Not  yet.    They  have  forgotten." 

"Come  then,  Highness." 

But  the  Grand  Duke  saw  that  the  aged  VasiLi  was 
mounted  first  and  then  they  rode  out  of  the  iron  gate  into 
a  path  which  led  directly  into  the  forest.  It  was  not  until 
they  were  well  clear  of  the  buildings  that  a  shout  at  one 
side  announced  that  their  mode  of  escape  had  been  dis- 
covered. Men  came  running,  firing  pistols  as  they  ran. 
Boris  Rylov,  bringing  up  the  rear,  reined  in  his  horse  and 
turning  emptied  a  revolver  at  the  nearest  of  their  pur- 
suers. One  man  fell  and  the  others  halted. 

Until  they  found  the  other  horses  in  the  stables  pursuit 
was  fruitless. 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  rode  at  the  head  of  the  little  caval- 
cade, down  i]ie  familiar  aisles  of  the  forest,  his  head 
bowed,  a  deep  frown  on  his  brows.  It  was  Vasili  who  first 
noticed  the  blood  dripping  from  his  finger  ends. 

"Master,"  he  gasped,  "you  are  wounded." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  the  Grand  Duke. 

But  Vasili  bound  the  arm  up  with  a  handkerchief  while 
Leo  Garshin  and  Boris  Rylov  watched  the  path  down 
which  they  had  come.  They  could  hear  the  crackling  of 
12 


PROLOGUE 


the  flames  at  the  Hunting  Lodge  to  the  southward  and 
the  cries  of  the  mob  at  the  Castle,  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  pursuit.  Perhaps  they  were  satisfied  to  appease  their 
madness  with  pillage  and  fire.  Half  an  hour  later  Boris 
pointed  backward.  A  new  glow  had  risen,  a  redder, 
deeper  glow. 

"The  Castle,  Master "  wailed  Vasili. 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  drew  rein  at  a  cross-path,  watched 
for  a  moment  and  then  turned  to  his  companions,  for  he 
had  reached  a  decision. 

"My  good  friends"  he  said  gently,  "our  ways  part 
here." 

"Master!    Highness!" 

But  he  was  resolute. 

"I  am  going  on  alone.  I  will  not  involve  you  further 
in  my  misfortunes.  You  can  do  nothing  for  me — nor  7 
anything  for  you  except  this.  Vasili  knows.  In  the  vault 
below  the  wine-cellar,  hidden  away,  are  some  objects  of 
value.  They  will  not  find  them.  When  they  go  away 
you  wttl  return.  The  visit  will  repay  you.  Divide  what  is 
there  into  equal  parts — silver,  plate  and  gold.  As  for 
me — forget  me.  Farewell!" 

They  saw  that  he  meant  what  he  said.  He  offered  these 
few  faithful  servitors  his  hand  and  they  Mssed  his  fingers 
— a  last  act  of  fealty  and  devotion  and  in  a  moment  they 
stood  listening  to  the  diminishing  hoof-beats  of  Vera  as 
the  young  master  went  out  of  their  lives. 

"May  God  preserve  him,"  muttered  Vasfli. 

"Amen,"  said  Boris  Rylov  and  Leo  Garshm. 


CHAPTER  I 
INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

THE  British  refugee  ship  Phrygia  was  about  to  sail 
for  Constantinople  where  her  unfortunate  passen- 
gers were  to  be  transferred  to  other  vessels  sailing 
for  Liverpool  and  New  York.  After  some  difficulties  the 
refugee  made  his  way  aboard  her  and  announced  his 
identity  to  the  captain.  If  he  had  expected  to  be  received 
with  the  honor  due  to  one  of  his  rank  and  station  he  was 
quickly  undeceived,  for  Captain  Blashford,  a  man  of 
rough  manners,  concealing  a  gentle  heart,  looked  him  over 
critically,  examined  his  credentials  (letters  he  had  hap- 
pened to  have  about  him),  and  then  smiled  grimly. 

"We've  got  room  for  one  more — and  that's  about  all." 

"I  have  no  money "  began  the  refugee. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  shrugged  the  Captain,  "you're 
not  the  only  one.  We've  a  cargo  of  twenty  princes, 
thirty-two  princesses,  eighteen  generals  and  enough 
counts  and  countesses  to  set  up  a  new  nation  somewhere. 
Your  'Ighness  is  the  only  Duke  that  has  reached  us  up 
to  the  present  speakin'  and  if  there  are  any  others,  they'll 
'ave  to  be  brisk  for  we're  sailin'  in  twenty  minutes." 

The  matter-of-fact  tones  with  which  the  unemotional 
Britisher  made  this  announcement  restored  the  lost  sense 
of  humor  of  the  Russian  refugee,  and  he  broke  into  a  grim 
laugh. 

"An  embarrassment  of  riches,"  remarked  the  Grand 
Duke. 

"Riches,"  grunted  the  Captain,  "in  a  manner  of  speak- 
15 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


in',  yes.  Money  is  not  so  plentiful.  But  jools  !  Good  God ! 
There  must  be  half  a  ton  of  diamonds,  rubies  and  emeralds 
aboard.  All  they're  got  left  most  of  'em,  but  com- 
plaints and  narvousness.  Give  me  a  cargo  of  wheat  and 
I'm  your  man,"  growled  the  Captain.  "It  stays  put  and 
doesn't  complain,"  and  then  turning  to  Peter — "Ye're 
not  expectin'  any  r'yal  suite  aboard  the  Phrygia,  are 
ye?" 

"No.  A  hammock  for'rad  will  be  good  enough  for 
me." 

"That's  the  way  I  like  to  'ear  a  man  talk.  Good  God! 
As  man  to  man,  I  arsk  you, — with  Counts  throwin'  ciga- 
rette butts  around  an'  princesses  cryin'  all  over  my  clean 
white  decks  an'  all,  what's  a  self-respectin'  skipper  to  do  ? 
But  I  'ave  my  orders  to  fetch  the  odd  lot  to  Constan- 
tinople an'  fetch  'em  I  will.  Oh !  They're  odd — all  right. 
Go  below,  sir,  an'  'ave  a  look  at  'em." 

But  Peter  Nicholaevitch  shook  his  head.  He  had  been 
doing  a  deal  of  quiet  thinking  in  those  starry  nights  upon 
the  Dnieper,  and  he  had  worked  out  his  problem  alone. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said  quietly,  "if  you  don't  mind,  I 
think  I'd  rather  preserve  my  incognito." 

"Incognito,  is  it?  Oh,  very  well,  suit  yourself.  And 
what  will  I  be  callin'  your  Highness?" 

"Peter  Nichols,"  said  the  Grand  Duke  with  a  smile, 
"it's  as  good  as  any  other." 

"Right  you  are,  Peter  Nichols.  Lay  for'rad  and  tell 
the  bos'n  to  show  you  up  to  my  cabin." 

So  Peter  Nichols  went  forward,  avoiding  the  cargo  aft, 
until  within  a  day's  run  of  the  Bosphorus  when  he  found 
himself  accosted  by  no  less  a  person  than  Prince  Galitzin 
who  had  strolled  out  to  get  the  morning  air.  He  tried 
to  avoid  the  man  but  Galitzin  planted  himself  firmly  in 
his  path,  scrutinizing  him  eagerly. 
16 


INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

"You  to»,  Highness !"  he  said  with  an  accent  of  grieved 
surprise. 

The  Grand  Duke  regarded  him  in  a  moment  of  si- 
lence. 

"It  must  be  evident  to  you,  Prince  Galitzin,  that  I  have 
some  object  in  remaining  unknown." 

"But,  Your  Highness,  such  a  thing  is  unnecessary.  Are 
we  not  all  dedicated  to  the  same  misfortunes?  Misery 
loves  company." 

"You  mean  that  it  makes  you  less  miserable  to  dis- 
cover that  I  share  your  fate?" 

"Not  precisely  that.  It  is  merely  that  if  one  holding 
your  liberal  views  cannot  escape  the  holocaust  that  has 
suddenly  fallen  there  is  little  hope  for  the  rest  of  us." 

"No,"  said  the  Grand  Duke  shortly.  "There  is  no 
hope,  none  at  all,  for  us  or  for  Russia." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  America." 

"But,  your  Highness,  that  is  impossible.  We  shall  all 
have  asylum  in  England  until  conditions  change.  You 
should  go  there  with  us.  It  will  lend  influence  to  our  mis- 
sion." 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"I  am  leaving  Russia  for  the  present.  She  is  outcast. 
For,  not  content  with  betraying  others,  she  has  betrayed 
herself." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  smiled  up  at  the  sky  and  the  fussy, 
fat,  be  jeweled  sycophant  before  him  listened  to  him  in 
amazement. 

"Prince  Galitzin,"  said  the  Grand  Duke  amusedly,  "I 

am  going  to  do  that  which  may  bring  the  blush  of  shame 

to  your  brow  or  the  sneer  of  pity  to  your  lips.     I  am 

going  to  fulfill  the  destiny  provided  for  everv  man  with  a 

17 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


pair  of  strong  hands,  and  a  willing  spirit — I  am  going 
to  work." 

The  Prince  stepped  back  a  pace,  his  watery  eyes  snap- 
ping in  incomprehension. 

"But  your  higher  destiny — your  great  heritage  as  a 
Prince  of  the  Royal  blood  of  Holy  Russia." 

"There  is  no  Holy  Russia,  my  friend,  until  she  is  born 
again.  Russia  is  worse  than  traitor,  worse  than  liar, 
worse  than  murderer  and  thief.  She-  is  a  fool." 

"All  will  cotne  right  in  time.  We  go  to  England  to 
wait." 

"I  have  other  plans." 

"Then  you  will  not  join  us?  Princess  Anastasie,  my 
daughter,  is  here.  General  Seminoff " 

"It  is  useless.  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  Leave  me, 
if  you  please." 

Prince  Galitzin  disappeared  quickly  below  to  spread  the 
information  of  his  discovery  among  the  disconsolate  ref- 
ugees and  it  was  not  long  before  it  was  known  from  one 
end  of  the  Phrygia  to  the  other  that  the  fellow  who  called 
himself  Peter  Nichols  was  none  other  than  the  Grand 
Duke  Peter  Nicholaevitch,  a  cousin  to  his  late  Majesty 
Nicholas  and  a  Prince  of  the  Royal  blood.  Peter  Nichols 
sought  the  Captain  in  his  cabin,  putting  the  whole  case 
before  him. 

"H-m,"  chuckled  the  Captain,  "Found  ye  out,  did 
they?  There's  only  a  few  of  you  left,  that's  why.  Better 
stay  'ere  in  my  cabin  until  we  reach  Constantinople.  I'd 
be  honored,  'Ighness,  to  say  nothin'  of  savin'  you  a  bit 
of  bother." 

"You're  very  kind." 

"Not  at  all.  Make  yourself  at  'ome.  There's  ciga- 
rettes on  the  locker  and  a  nip  of  the  Scotch  to  keep  the 
chill  out.  Here's  a  light.  You've  been  worryin'  me  some, 
'Ighness.  Fact  is  I  didn't  know  just  how  big  a  bug  you 
18 


INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

were  until  to-day  when  I  arsked  some  questions.     You'll 
forgive  me,  'Ighness?" 

"Peter  Nichols,"  corrected  the  Grand  Duke. 

"No,"  insisted  the  Captain,  "we'll  give  you  yer  title 
while  we  can.  You  know  we  British  have  a  bit  of  a  taste 
for  r'yalty  when  we  know  it's  the  real  thing.  I  don't  take 
much  stock  in  most  of  my  cargo  aft.  And  beggin'  yer 
'Ighness's  pardon  I  never  took  much  stock  in  Russia  since 
she  lay  down  on  the  job  and  left  the  Allies  in  the 
lurch » 

"Captain  Blashford,"  said  the  Grand  Duke  quietly. 
"You  can't  hurt  my  feelings." 

"But  I  do  like  you,  'Ighness,  and  I  want  to  do  all  that 
I  can  to  *elp  you  when  we  get  to  anchor." 

"Thanks." 

"I  take  it  that  you  don't  want  anybody  ashore  to  know 
who  ye  are?" 

"Exactly.  Most  of  these  refugees  are  going  to  Eng- 
land. I  have  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  go  with 
them." 

"Where  then  do  you  propose  to  go  ?" 

"To  the  United  States,"  said  the  Grand  Duke  eagerly. 

"Without  money?" 

"I'd  have  no  money  if  I  went  to  England  unless  I  sub- 
sisted on  the  charity  of  my  friends.  My  branch  of  the 
family  is  not  rich.  The  war  has  made  us  poorer.  Such 
securities  as  I  have  are  in  a  vault  in  Kiev.  It  would  be 
suicide  for  me  to  attempt  to  reclaim  them  now.  I'm  go- 
ing to  try  to  make  my  own  way." 

"Impossible !" 

The  Grand  Duke  laughed  at  the  Englishman's  expres- 
sion. 

"Why?" 

"Yer  'ands,  'Ighness." 

The  Grand  Duke  shrugged  and  grinned. 
19 


THE  V AGE  ANT  DUKE 


"I'll  risk  it.  I'm  not  without  resources.  Will  you  help 
me  to  a  ship  sailing  for  America?'* 

"Yes— but " 

"Oh,  I'll  work  my  passage  over — if  nobody  bothers 
me." 

"By  George!  I  like  your  spirit.  Give  me  your  'and, 
sir.  I'll  do  what  I  can.  If  the  Bermudian  hasn't  sailed 
from  the  Horn  yet,  I  think  I  can  manage  it  for  ye." 

"And  keep  me  clear  of  the  rest  of  your  passengers?" 
added  His  Highness. 

"Right-o.  They'll  go  on  the  Semaphore.  You  stay 
right  'ere  and  mum's  the  word."  And  Captain  Blashford 
went  out  on  deck  leaving  Peter  Nichols  to  his  cigarette 
and  his  meditations. 

Many  times  had  the  Grand  Duke  Peter  given  thanks 
that  the  blood  of  his  mother  flowed  strongly  in  his  veins. 
He  was  more  British  than  Russian  and  he  could  remember 
things  that  had  happened  since  he  had  grown  to  adoles- 
cence which  had  made  the  half  of  him  that  was  English 
revolt  against  the  Russian  system.  It  was  perhaps  his 
musical  education  rather  than  his  University  training  or 
his  travels  in  England  and  France  that  had  turned  him  to 
the  Intelligentsia.  In  the  vast  republic  of  art  and  letters 
he  had  imbibed  the  philosophy  that  was  to  threaten  the 
very  existence  of  his  own  clan.  The  spread  of  the  revo- 
lution had  not  dismayed  him,  for  he  believed  that  in  time 
the  pendulum  would  swing  back  and  bring  a  constitutional 
government  to  Russia.  But  in  the  weeks  of  struggle,  pri- 
vation, and  passion  a  new  Peter  Nicholaevitch  was  born. 

The  failure  of  his  plans  in  the  sudden  flood  of  an- 
archy which  had  swept  over  Zukovo,  the  treachery  of  those 
he  had  thought  faithful  and  the  attempt  upon  his  life 
had  changed  his  viewpoint.  It  takes  a  truly  noble  spirit 
to  wish  to  kiss  the  finger  that  has  pulled  the  trigger  of 
a  revolver,  the  bullet  from  which  has  gone  through  one's 
20 


INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

hat.  From  disappointment  and  dismay  Peter  Nicholae- 
vitch  had  turned  to  anger.  They  hadn't  played  the  game 
with  him.  It  wasn't  cricket.  His  resolution  to  sail  for 
the  United  States  was  decided.  To  throw  himself,  an  ob- 
ject of  charity,  upon  the  mercies  of  the  Earl  of  Shet- 
land, his  mother's  cousin,  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

To  his  peasants  he  had  preached  the  gospel  of  labor, 
humility  and  peace,  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  they 
had  been  called.  He  had  tried  to  exemplify  it  to  them. 
He  could  do  no  less  now,  to  himself.  By  teaching  himself, 
he  could  perhaps  fit  himself  to  teach  them.  In  England 
it  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  remain  incognito,  and  he 
had  a  pride  in  wishing  to  succeed  alone  and  unaided. 
Only  the  United  States,  whose  form  of  government  more 
nearly  approached  the  ideal  he  had  for  Russia,  could  of- 
fer him  the  opportunities  to  discover  whether  or  not  a 
prince  could  not  also  be  a  man. 

To  the  Princess  Anastasie  he  gave  little  thought.  That 
their  common  exile  and  the  chance  encounter  under  such 
circumstances  had  aroused  no  return  of  an  entente  to- 
ward what  had  once  been  a  half-sentimental  attachment 
convinced  him  of  how  little  it  had  meant  to  him.  There 
were  no  royal  prohibitions  upon  him  now.  To  marry  the 
Princess  Anastasie  and  settle  in  London,  living  upon  the 
proceeds  of  her  wealthy  father's  American  and  British 
securities,  was  of  course  the  easiest  solution  of  his  diffi- 
culties. A  life  of  ease,  music,  good  sportsmanship,  the 
comfort  that  only  England  knows.  .  .  .  She  was 
comely  too — blond,  petite,  and  smoked  her  cigarette  very 
prettily.  Their  marriage  had  once  been  discussed.  She 
wanted  it  still,  perhaps.  Something  of  all  this  may  have 
Been  somewhere  in  the  back  of  Prince  Galitzin's  ambitious 
mind.  The  one  course  would  be  so  easy,  the  other 

Peter  Nicholaevitch  rose  and  carefully  flicked  his  ciga- 
rette through  the  open  port.  No.  One  does  not  pass  twice 
81 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


through  such  moments  of  struggle  and  self-communion  as 
he  had  had  in  those  long  nights  of  his  escape  along  the 
Dnieper.  He  had  chosen.  Peter  Nichols!  The  name 
amused  him.  If  Captain  Blashford  was  a  man  of  his  word 
to-night  would  be  the  end  of  the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch,  and  the  Princess  Anastasie  might  find  some 
more  ardent  suitor  to  her  grace  and  beauty. 

She  did  not  seek  him  out.  Perhaps  the  hint  to  Galitzin 
had  been  sufficient  and  the  Grand  Duke  from  his  hiding 
place  saw  her'  pretty  figure  set  ashore  among  the  mis- 
cellany of  martyred  "r'yalty."  He  turned  away  from  his 
port-hole  with  a  catch  of  his  breath  as  the  last  vestige 
of  his  old  life  passed  from  sight.  And  then  quietly  took 
up  a  fresh  cigarette  and  awaited  the  Captain. 

The  details  were  easily  arranged.  Blashford  was  a 
man  of  resource  and  at  night  returned  from  a  visit  to  the 
Captain  of  the  Bermudian  with  word  that  all  was  well. 
He  had  been  obliged  to  relate  the  facts  but  Captain  Araii- 
tage  could  keep  a  secret  and  promised  the  refugee  a  job 
under  his  steward  who  was  short-handed.  And  so  the  next 
morning,  after  shaving  and  dressing  himself  in  borrowed 
clothes,  Peter  Nichols  shook  Captain  Blashford  warmly 
by  the  hand  and  went  aboard  his  new  ship. 

Peter  Nichols'  new  job  was  that  of  a  waiter  at  the  tables 
in  the  dining  saloon.  He  was  a  very  good  waiter,  sup- 
plying, from  the  wealth  of  a  Continental  experience,  the 
deficiencies  of  other  waiters  he  had  known.  He  wore  a 
black  shell  jacket  and  a  white  shirt  front  which  remained 
innocent  of  gravy  spots.  The  food  was  not  very  good  nor 
very  plentiful,  but  he  served  it  with  an  air  of  such  im- 
portance that  it  gained  flavor  and  substance  by  the  re- 
flection of  his  deference.  There  were  English  officers 
bound  for  Malta,  Frenchmen  for  Marseilles  and  Americans 
of  the  Red  Cross  without  number  bound  for  New  York. 
Girls,  too,  clear-eyed,  bronzed  and  hearty,  who  talked  war 
22 


INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

and  politics  beneath  his  very  nose,  challenging  his  own 
theories.  They  noticed  him  too  and  whispered  among 
themselves,  but  true  to  his  ambition  to  do  every  task  at 
the  best  of  his  bent,  he  preserved  an  immobile  countenance 
and  pocketed  his  fees,  which  would  be  useful  ere  long,  with 
the  grateful  appreciation  of  one  to  whom  shillings  and 
franc  pieces  come  as  the  gifts  of  God.  Many  were  the 
attempts  to  draw  him  into  a  conversation,  but  where 
the  queries  could  not  be  answered  by  a  laconic  "Yes,  sir," 
or  "No,  sir,"  this  paragon  of  waiters  maintained  a  smil- 
ing silence. 

"I'm  sure  he's  a  prince  or  something,"  he  heard  one 
young  girl  of  a  hospital  unit  say  to  a  young  medico  of 
the  outfit.  "Did  you  ever  see  such  a  nose  and  brows  in 

your  life?  And  his  hands !  You  can  never  mistake 

hands.  I  would  swear  those  hands  had  never  done  menial 
work  for  a  thousand  years." 

All  of  which  was  quite  true,  but  it  made  the  waiter 
Peter  uncomfortably  careful.  There  were  no  women  in 
the  kitchen,  but  there  was  an  amatory  stewardess,  fat  and 
forty,  upon  whom  the  factitious  technique  of  the  saloon 
fell  with  singular  insipidity.  He  fled  from  her.  Peter, 
the  waiter,  was  already  a  good  democrat  but  he  was  not 
ready  to  spread  his  philosophy  out  so  thin. 

He  slept  forward,  messed  abaft  the  galley,  enriched 
his  vocabulary  and  broadened  his  point  of  view.  There  is 
no  leveler  like  a  ship's  fo'c'sle,  no  better  school  of  philoso- 
phy than  that  of  men  upon  their  "beam  ends."  There 
were  many  such — Poles,  Slovaks,  Roumanians,  an  Ar- 
menian or  two,  refugees,  adventurers  from  America,  old, 
young,  dissolute,  making  a  necessity  of  virtue  under  that 
successful  oligarchy,  the  ship's  bridge. 

In  the  Americans  Peter  was  interested  with  an  English- 
man's point  of  view.  He  had  much  to  learn,  and  he  in- 
vented a  tale  of  his  fortunes  which  let  him  into  their  con- 
23 


THE  PAGEANT  DUKE 


fidences,  especially  into  that  of  Jim  Coast,  waiter  like 
himself,  whose  bunk  adjoined  his  own.  Jim  Coast  was  a 
citizen  of  the  world,  inured  to  privation  under  many  flags. 
He  had  been  born  in  New  Jersey,  U.  S.  A.,  of  decent 
people,  had  worked  in  the  cranberry  bogs,  farmed  in  Penn- 
sylvania, "punched"  cattle  in  Wyoming,  "prospected"  in 
the  Southwest,  looted  ranches  in  Mexico,  fought  against 
Diaz  and  again  with  the  insurgents  in  Venezuela,  worked 
on  cattle-ships  and  so,  by  easy  stages,  had  drifted  across 
the  breadth  of  Europe  living  by  his  wits  at  the  expense 
of  the  credulous  and  the  unwary.  And  now,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  years,  he  was  going  home — though  just  what 
that  meant  he  did  not  know.  He  had  missed  great  fortune 
twice — "by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,"  as  he  picturesquely  de- 
scribed it,  once  in  a  mine  in  Arizona  and  again  in  a  land- 
deal  in  the  Argentine.  There  were  reasons  why  he  hadn't 
dared  to  return  to  the  United  States  before.  He  was  a 
man  with  a  grievance,  but,  however  free  in  his  confidences 
in  other  respects,  gave  the  interested  Peter  no  inkling  as 
to  what  that  grievance  was. 

No  more  curious  acquaintanceship  could  possibly  be 
imagined,  but  privation,  like  politics,  makes  strange  bed- 
fellows, and,  from  tolerance  and  amusement,  Pete,  as  the 
other  called  him,  found  himself  yielding,  without  stint,  to 
the  fantastic  spell  of  Jim  Coast's  multifarious  attractions. 
He  seemed  to  have  no  doubts  as  to  the  possibility  of  mak- 
ing a  living  in  America  and  referred  darkly  to  possible 
"coups"  that  would  net  a  fortune.  He  was  an  agreeable 
villain,  not  above  mischief  to  gain  his  ends,  and  Peter,  who 
cherished  an  ideal,  made  sure  that,  once  safe  ashore,  it 
would  be  best  if  they  parted  company.  But  he  didn't  tell 
Jim  Coast  so,  for  the  conversational  benefits  he  derived 
from  that  gentleman's  acquaintance  were  a  liberal  edu- 
cation. 

We  are  admonished  that  they  are  blessed  who  just  stand 
24 


INTRODUCING  PETER  NICHOLS 

and  wait,  and  Peter  Nichols,  three  days  out  of  New  York 
harbor,  found  himself  the  possessor  of  forty  dollars  in 
tips  from  the  voyage  with  sixty  dollars  coming  to  him  as 
wages — not  so  bad  for  a  first  venture  upon  the  high  seas 
of  industry.  It  was  the  first  real  money  he  had  ever  made 
in  his  life  and  he  was  proud  of  it,  jingling  it  contentedly 
in  his  pockets  and  rubbing  the  bills  luxuriously  one  against 
the  other.  But  his  plans  required  more  than  this,  for  he 
had  read  enough  to  know  that  in  the  United  States  one 
is  often  taken  at  one's  own  estimate,  and  that  if  he  wasn't 
to  find  a  job  as  a  ditch-digger,  he  must  make  a  good  ap- 
pearance. And  so  it  was  now  time  to  make  use  of  the 
one  Grand  Ducal  possession  remaining  to  him,  a  gold  ring 
set  with  a  gorgeous  ruby  that  had  once  belonged  to  his 
father.  This  ring  he  had  always  worn  and  had  removed 
from  his  finger  at  Ushan,  in  the  fear  that  its  magnificence 
might  betray  him.  He  had  kept  it  carefully  tied  about  his 
neck  in  a  bag  on  a  bit  of  string  and  had  of  course  not 
even  shown  it  to  Jim  Coast  who  might  have  deemed  it  an 
excuse  to  sever  their  strange  friendship. 

Through  the  Head  Steward  he  managed  a  message  to 
Captain  Armitage  and  was  bidden  to  the  officer's  cabin, 
where  he  explained  the  object  of  his  visit,  exhibited  his 
treasure  and  estimated  its  value. 

The  Captain  opened  his  eyes  a  bit  wider  as  he  gazed 
into  the  sanguine  depths  of  the  stone. 

"If  I  didn't  know  something  of  your  history,  Nichols," 
he  said  with  a  wink,  "I  might  think  you'd  been  looting  the 
strong  box  of  the  Sultan  of  Turkey.  Pigeon's  blood  and 
as  big  as  my  thumb  nail!  You  want  to  sell  it?" 

"I  need  capital." 

"What  do  you  want  for  it?" 

"It's  worth  a  thousand  pounds  of  English  money.  Per- 
haps more,  I  don't  know.  I'll  take  what  I  can  get." 

"I  see.     You're  afraid  to  negotiate  the  sale  ashore?" 
25 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Exactly.    I'd  be  arrested." 

"And  you  don't  want  explanations.  H-ra — leave  it 
with  me  over  night.  I'll  see  the  Purser.  He'll  know." 

"Thanks." 

The  Captain  offered  the  waiter  in  the  shell- jacket  the 
hospitality  of  his  cabin,  but  Peter  Nichols  thanked  him 
gratefully  and  withdrew. 

The  result  of  this  arrangement  was  that  the  ruby  ring 
changed  owners.  The  Purser  bought  it  for  two  thousand 
in  cash.  He  knew  a  good  thing  when  he  saw  it.  But 
Peter  Nichols  was  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  II 
NEW  YORK 

THE  Duke-errant  had  prepared  himself  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  battlements  of  lower  New  York,  but 
as  the  Bermudian  came  up  the  bay  that  rosy  spring 
afternoon,  the  western  sun  gilding  the  upper  half  of  the 
castellated  towers  which  rose  from  a  sea  of  moving 
shadows,  it  seemed  a  dream  city,  the  fortress  of  a  fairy 
tale.  His  fingers  tingled  to  express  this  frozen  music,  to 
relieve  it  from  its  spell  of  enchantment,  and  phrases  of 
Debussy's  "Cathedrale  Engloutie"  came  welling  up  within 
him  from  almost  forgotten  depths. 

"Parbleu!  She's  grown  some,  Pete,  since  I  saw  her 
last!" 

This  from  his  grotesque  companion  who  was  not  moved 
by  concord  of  sweet  sounds.  "They've  buried  the  Trinity 
clean  out  of  sight." 

"The  Trinity  ?"  questioned  Peter  solemnly. 

"Bless  your  heart "  laughed  Coast,  "I'd  say  so 

But  I  mean,  the  church And  that  must  be  the  Wool- 
worth  Building  yonder.  Where's  yer  St.  Paul's  and  Krem- 
lin now?  Some  village, — what?" 

"Gorgeous!"  muttered  Peter. 

"Hell  of  a  thing  to  tackle  single-handed,  though,  eh, 
boh?" 

Something  of  the  same  thought  was  passing  through 
Peter's  mind  but  he  only  smiled. 

"I'll  find  a  job,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Waitin'!"  sneered  Coast.  "Fine  job  that  for  a  man 
27 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


with  your  learnin'.  'Hey,  waiter!  Some  butter  if  you 
please,' "  he  satirized  in  mincing  tones,  "  'this  soup  is 
cold — this  beef  is  underdone.  Oh,  cawn't  you  give  me  some 
service  here!'  I  say,  don't  you  hear  'em — people  that 
never  saw  a  servant  in  their  own  home  town.  Pretty  occu- 
pation for  an  old  war  horse  like  me  or  a  globe-trotter  like 
you.  No.  None  for  me.  I'll  fry  my  fish  in  a  bigger  pan. 
Allans!  Pete.  I  like  you.  I'll  like  you  more  when  you 
grow  some  older,  but  you've  got  a  head  above  your  ears 
that  ain't  all  bone.  I  can  use  you.  What  d'ye  say?  We'll 
get  ashore,  some  way,  and  then  we'll  show  the  U.  S.  A.  a 
thing  or  two  not  written  in  the  books." 

"We'll  go  ashore  together,  Jim.    Then  we'll  see." 

"Righto !  But  I'll  eat  my  hat  if  I  can  see  you  balancin' 
dishes  in  a  Broadway  Chop  House." 

Peter  couldn't  see  that  either,  but  he  didn't  tell  Jim 
Coast  so.  Their  hour  on  deck  had  struck,  for  a  final  meal 
was  to  be  served  and  they  went  below  to  finish  their  duties. 
That  night  they  were  paid  off  and  discharged. 

The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  inspection  and  interroga- 
tion of  Peter  Nichols,  the  alien,  were  obviated  by  the  sim- 
ple expedient  of  his  going  ashore  under  cover  of  the  dark- 
ness and  not  coming  back  to  the  ship — this  at  a  hint  from 
the  sympathetic  Armitage  who  gave  the  ex-waiter  a  hand- 
clasp and  his  money  and  wished  him  success. 

Midnight  found  Peter  and  Jim  Coast  on  Broadway  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Forty-second  Street  with  Peter  blink- 
ing comfortably  up  at  the  electric  signs  and  marveling 
at  everything.  The  more  Coast  drank  the  deeper  was  his 
cynicism  but  Peter  grew  mellow.  This  was  a  wonderful 
new  world  he  was  exploring  and  with  two  thousand  dollars 
safely  tucked  on  the  inside  of  his  waistcoat,  he  was  ready 
to  defy  the  tooth  of  adversity. 

In  the  morning  Peter  Nichols  came  to  a  decision.  And 
so  over  the  coffee  and  eggs  when  Coast  asked  him  what 
28 


NEW  YORK 


his  plans  were  he  told  him  he  was  going  to  look  for  a  job. 

Coast  looked  at  him  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigar 
and  spoke  at  last. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  be  a  quitter,  Pete.  The  world 

owes  us  a  livin' — you  and  me Bah !  It's  easy  if  you'll 

use  your  headpiece.  If  the  world  won't  give,  I  mean  to 
take.  The  jobs  are  meant  for  little  men." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"An  enterprisin'  man  wouldn't  ask  such  a  question.  Half 
the  people  in  the  world  takes  what  the  other  half  gives. 
You  ought  to  know  what  half  7  belong  to." 

"I'm  afraid  I  belong  to  the  other  half,  Jim  Coast,"  said 
Peter  quietly. 

"Sacre — /"  sneered  the  other,  rising  suddenly.  "Where 
you  goin'  to  wait,  Pete?  At  the  Ritz  or  the  Commodore? 
In  a  month  you'll  be  waitin'  on  me.  It'll  be  Mister  Coast 
for  you  then,  man  garcon,  but  you'll  still  be  Pete."  He 
shrugged  and  offered  his  hand.  "Well,  we  won't  quarrel 
but  our  ways  split  here." 

"I'm  sorry,  Jim.     Good-by." 

He  saw  Coast  slouch  out  into  the  street  and  disappear 
in  the  crowd  moving  toward  Broadway.  He  waited  for  a 
while  thinking  deeply  and  then  with  a  definite  plan  in  his 
mind  strolled  forth.  First  he  bought  a  second-hand  suit 
case  in  Seventh  Avenue,  then  found  a  store  marked  "Gen- 
tlemen's Outfitters"  where  he  purchased  ready-made  cloth- 
ing, a  hat,  shoes,  underwear,  linen  and  cravats,  arraying 
himself  with  a  sense  of  some  satisfaction  and  packing  in 
his  suitcase  what  he  couldn't  wear,  went  forth,  found  a 

taxi  and  drove  in  state  to  a  good  hotel. 

******* 

New  York  assimilates  its  immigrants  with  surprising 
rapidity.    Through  this  narrow  funnel  they  pour  into  the 
"melting  pot,"  their  racial  characteristics  already  neutral- 
ized, their  souls  already  inoculated  with  the  spirit  of  in- 
29 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


dividualism.  Prepared  as  he  was  to  accept  with  a  good 
grace  conditions  as  he  found  them,  Peter  Nichols  was  as- 
tonished at  the  ease  with  which  he  fitted  into  the  niche 
that  he  had  chosen.  His  room  was  on  the  eighteenth  floor, 
to  which  and  from  which  he  was  shot  in  an  enameled  lift 
operated  by  a  Uhlan  in  a  monkey-cap.  He  found  that  it 
required  a  rather  nice  adjustment  of  his  muscles  to  spring 
forth  at  precisely  the  proper  moment.  There  was  a  young 
lady  who  presided  over  the  destinies  of  the  particular  shelf 
that  he  occupied  in  this  enormous  cupboard,  a  very  pretty 
young  lady,  something  between  a  French  Duchess  and  a 
lady's  maid.  Her  smile  had  a  homelike  quality  though  and 
it  was  worth  risking  the  perilous  catapulting  up  and  down 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  handing  her  his  room  key.  Hav- 
ing no  valuables  of  course  but  his  money  which  he  carried 
in  his  pockets  there  was  no  danger  from  unprincipled  per- 
sons had  she  been  disposed  to  connive  at  dishonesty. 

His  bedroom  was  small  but  neat  and  his  bathroom  was 
neat  but  small,  tiled  in  white  enamel,  containing  every 
device  that  the  heart  of  a  clean  man  could  desire.  He  dis- 
covered that  by  dropping  a  quarter  into  various  apertures 
he  could  secure  almost  anything  he  required  from  tooth 
paste  to  razor  blades.  There  was  a  telephone  beside  his 
bed  which  rang  at  inconvenient  moments  and  a  Bible  upon 
the  side  table  proclaimed  the  religious  fervor  of  this  ex- 
traordinary people.  A  newspaper  was  sent  in  to  him  every 
morning  whether  he  rang  for  it  or  not,  and  every  time  he 
did  ring,  a  lesser  Uhlan  brought  a  thermos  bottle  con- 
taining iced  water.  This  perplexed  him  for  a  time  but  he 
was  too  much  ashamed  of  his  ignorance  to  question.  You 
see,  he  was  already  acquiring  the  first  ingredient  of  the 
American  character — omniscience,  for  he  found  that  in 
New  York  no  one  ever  admits  that  he  doesn't  know  every- 
thing. 

But  it  was  all  very  wonderful,  pulsing  with  life,  elo- 
30 


NEW  YORK 


quent  of  achievement.  He  was  in  no  haste.  By  living 
with  some  care,  he  found  that  the  money  from  his  ruby 
would  last  for  several  months.  Meanwhile  he  was  studying 
his  situation  and  its  possibilities.  Summing  up  his  own 
attainments  he  felt  that  he  was  qualified  as  a  teacher  of 
the  piano  or  of  the  voice,  as  an  instructor  in  languages,  or 
if  the  worst  came,  as  a  waiter  in  a  fashionable  restaurant 
— perhaps  even  a  head-waiter — which  from  the  authority 
he  observed  in  the  demeanor  of  the  lord  of  the  hotel 
dining  room  seemed  almost  all  the  honor  that  a  person  in 
America  might  hope  to  gain.  But,  in  order  that  no  proper 
opportunity  should  slip  by,  he  scanned  the  newspapers  in 
the  hope  of  finding  something  that  he  could  do. 

As  the  weeks  passed  he  made  the  discovery  that  he  was 
being  immensely  entertained.  He  was  all  English  now. 
It  was  not  in  the  least  difficult  to  make  acquaintances. 
Almost  everybody  spoke  to  everybody  without  the  slight- 
est feeling  of  restraint.  He  learned  the  meaning  of  the 
latest  American  slang  but  found  difficulty  in  applying  it, 
rejoiced  in  the  syncopation  of  the  jazz,  America's  original 
contribution  to  the  musical  art,  and  by  the  end  of  a  month 
thought  himself  thoroughly  acclimated. 

But  he  still  surprised  inquiring  glances  male  and  female 
cast  in  his  direction.  There  was  something  about  his  per- 
sonality which,  disguise  it  as  he  might  under  American- 
made  garments  and  American-made  manners,  refused  to  be 
hidden.  It  was  his  charm  added  to  his  general  good  nature 
and  adaptability  which  quickly  made  Peter  Nichols  some 
friends  of  the  better  sort.  If  he  had  been  willing  to  drift 
downward  he  would  have  cast  in  his  lot  with  Jim  Coast. 
Instead,  he  followed  decent  inclinations  and  found  himself 
at  the  end  of  six  weeks  a  part  of  a  group  of  young  busi- 
ness men  who  took  him  home  to  dine  with  their  wives  and 
gave  him  the  benefit  of  their  friendly  advice.  To  all  of 
them  he  told  the  same  story,  that  he  was  an  Englishman 
31 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


who  had  worked  in  Russia  with  the  Red  Cross  and  that  he 
had  come  to  the  United  States  to  get  a  job. 

It  was  a  likely  story  and  most  of  them  swallowed  it. 
But  one  clever  girl  whom  he  met  out  at  dinner  rather 
startled  him  by  the  accuracy  of  her  intuitions. 

"I  have  traveled  a  good  deal,  Mr.  Nichols,'*  she  said 
quizzically,  "but  I've  never  yet  met  an  Englishman  like 
you." 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  tell  whether  I  am  to  consider 
that  as  flattery  or  disapproval,"  said  Peter  calmly. 

"You  talk  like  an  Englishman,  but  you're  entirely  too 
much  interested  in  everything  to  be  true  to  type." 

"Ah,  really " 

"Englishmen  are  either  bored  or  presumptuous.  You're 
neither.  And  there's  a  tiny  accent  that  I  can't  ex- 
plain  " 

"Don't  try " 

"I  must.  We  Americans  believe  in  our  impulses.  My 
brother  Dick  says  you're  a  man  of  mystery.  I've  solved 
it,"  she  laughed,  "I'm  sure  you're  a  Russian  Grand  Duke 
incognito." 

Peter  laughed  and  tried  bravado. 

"You  are  certainly  all  in  the  mustard,"  he  blundered 
helplessly. 

And  she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  burst 
into  laughter. 

These  associations  were  very  pleasant,  but,  contrary  to 
Peter's  expectations,  they  didn't  seem  to  be  leading  any- 
where. The  efforts  that  he  made  to  find  positions  com- 
mensurate with  his  ambitions  had  ended  in  blind  alleys. 
He  was  too  well  educated  for  some  of  them,  not  well  enough 
educated  for  others. 

More  than  two  months  had  passed.  He  had  moved  to  a 
boarding  house  in  a  decent  locality,  but  of  the  two  thou- 
sands dollars  with  which  he  had  entered  New  York  there 
32 


NEW  YORK 


now  remained  to  him  less  than  two  hundred.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  believe  that  he  had  played  the  game  and  lost 
and  that  witliin  a  very  few  weeks  he  would  be  obliged  to 
hide  himself  from  these  excellent  new  acquaintances  and 
go  back  to  his  old  job.  Then  the  tide  of  his  fortune  sud- 
denly turned. 

Dick  Sheldon,  the  brother  of  the  girl  who  was  "all  in 
the  mustard,'*  aware  of  Peter's  plight,  had  stumbled  across 
the  useful  bit  of  information  and  brought  it  to  Peter  at 
the  boarding  house. 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  you'd  once  had  something  to  do 
with  forestry  in  Russia?"  he  asked. 

Peter  nodded.  "I  was  once  employed  in  the  reafforesta- 
tion of  a  large  estate,"  he  replied. 

"Then  I've  found  your  job,"  said  Sheldon  heartily, 
clapping  Peter  on  the  back.  "A  friend  of  Sheldon,  Sen- 
ior's, Jonathan  K.  McGuire,  has  a  big  place  down  in  the 
wilderness  of  Jersey — thousands  of  acres  and  he  wants  a 
man  to  take  charge — sort  of  forestry  expert  and  general 
superintendent,  money  no  object.  I  reckon  you  could  cop 
out  three  hundred  a  month  as  a  starter." 

"That  looks  good  to  me,"  said  Peter,  delighted  that  the 
argot  fell  so  aptly  from  his  lips.  And  then,  "You're  not 
spoofing,  are  you?" 

"Devil  a  spoof.  It's  straight  goods,  Nichols.  Will  you 
take  it?" 

Peter  had  a  vision  of  the  greasy  dishes  he  was  to  es- 
cape. 

"Will  I?"  he  exclaimed  delightedly.    "Can  I  get  it?" 

"Sure  thing.  McGuire  is  a  millionaire,  made  a  pot  of 
money  somewhere  in  the  West — dabbles  in  the  market. 
That's  where  Dad  met  him.  Crusty  old  rascal.  Daughter. 
Living  down  in  Jersey  now,  alone  with  a  lot  of  servants. 
Queer  one.  Maybe  you'll  like  him — maybe  not." 

Peter  clasped  his  friend  by  the  hands. 
33 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Moloch  himself  would  look  an  angel  of  mercy  to  me 
now." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  make  good?" 

"Well,  rather.     Whom  shall  I  see?    And  when?" 

"I  can  fix  it  up  with  Dad,  I  reckon.  You'd  better  come 
down  to  the  office  and  see  him  about  twelve." 

Peter  Sheldon,  Senior,  looked  him  over  and  asked  him 
questions  and  the  interview  was  quite  satisfactory. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  as  far  as  I  know  it,"  said 
Sheldon,  Senior  (which  was  more  than  Peter  Nichols  had 
done).  "Jonathan  K.  McGuire  is  a  strange  character — 

keeps  his  business  to  himself .  How  much  he's  worth 

nobody  knows  but  himself  and  the  Treasury  Department. 
Does  a  good  deal  of  buying  and  selling  through  this  of- 
fice. A  hard  man  in  a  deal  but  reasonable  in  other  things. 
I've  had  his  acquaintance  for  five  years,  lunched  with 
him,  dined  with  him — visited  this  place  in  Jersey,  but  I 
give  you  my  word,  Mr.  Nichols,  I've  never  yet  got  the 
prick  of  a  pin  beneath  that  man's  skin.  You  iriay  not  like 
him.  Few  people  do.  But  there's  no  harm  in  taking  a 
try  at  this  job." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Nichols. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  will  or  not,"  broke  in 
Sheldon,  Senior,  frankly.  "Something's  happened  lately. 
About  three  weeks  ago  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  came  into 
this  office  hurriedly,  shut  the  door  behind  him,  locked  it 
— and  sank  into  a  chair,  puffing  hard,  his  face  the  color 
of  putty.  He  wouldn't  answer  any  questions  and  put  me 
off,  though  I'd  have  gone  out  of  my  way  to  help  him.  But 
after  a  while  he  looked  out  of  the  window,  phoned  for  his 
car  and  went  again,  saying  he  was  going  down  into  Jer- 
sey." 

"He  was  sick,  perhaps,"  ventured  Peter. 

"It  was  something  worse  than  that,  Mr.  Nichols.  He 
looked  as  though  he  had  seen  a  ghost  or  heard  a  banshee. 
34 


NEW  YORK 


Then  this  comes,"  continued  the  broker,  taking  up  a  let- 
ter from  the  desk.  "Asks  for  a  forester,  a  good  strong 
man.  You're  strong,  Mr.  Nichols?  Er — and  courageous? 
You're  not  addicted  to  'nerves'?  You  see  I'm  telling  you 
all  these  things  so  that  you'll  go  down  to  Black  Rock 
with  your  eyes  open.  He  also  asks  me  to  engage  other 
men  as  private  police  or  gamekeepers,  who  will  act  under 
your  direction.  Queer,  isn't  it?  Rather  spooky,  I'd  say, 
but  if  you're  game,  we'll  close  the  bargain  now.  Three 
hundred  a  month  to  start  with  and  found.  Is  that  satis- 
factory?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Peter  with  a  bow.  "When  do  I  be- 
gin?" 

"At  once  if  you  like.  Salary  begins  now.  Fifty  in  ad- 
vance for  expenses." 

"That's  fair  enough,  Mr.  Sheldon.  If  you  will  give  me 
the  directions,  I  will  go  to-day." 

"To-morrow  will  be  time  enough."  Sheldon,  Senior,  had 
turned  to  his  desk  and  was  writing  upon  a  slip  of  paper. 
This  he  handed  to  Peter  with  a  check. 

"That  will  show  you  how  to  get  there,"  he  said  as  he 
rose,  brusquely.  "Glad  to  have  met  you.  Good-day." 

And  Peter  felt  himself  hand-shaken  and  pushed  at  the 
same  time,  reaching  the  outer  office,  mentally  out  of  breath 
from  the  sudden,  swift  movement  of  his  fortunes.  Shel- 
don, Senior,  had  not  meant  to  be  abrupt.  He  was  merely 
a  business  man  relaxing  for  a  moment  to  do  a  service  for 
a  friend.  When  Peter  Nichols  awoke  to  his  obligations 
he  sought  out  Sheldon,  Junior,  and  thanked  him  with  a 
sense  of  real  gratitude  and  Sheldon,  Junior,  gave  him  a 
•warm  handclasp  and  Godspeed. 


The  Pennsylvania  Station  caused  the  new  Superintend- 
ent of  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  to  blink  and  gasp.  He  paused, 
suit  case  in  hand,  at  the  top  of  the  double  flight  of  stairs 
35 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


to  survey  the  splendid  proportions  of  the  waiting  room 
where  the  crowds  seemed  lost  in  its  great  spaces.  In 
Europe  such  a  building  would  be  a  cathedral.  In  America 
it  was  a  railway  station.  And  the  thought  was  made  more 
definite  by  the  Gregorian  chant  of  the  train  announcer 
which  sounded  aloft,  its  tones  seeking  concord  among  their 
own  echoes. 

This  was  the  portal  to  the  new  life  in  which  Peter  was 
to  work  out  his  own  salvation  and  the  splendor  of  the  im- 
mediate prospect  uplifted  him  with  a  sense  of  his  personal 
importance  in  the  new  scheme  of  things  of  which  this  was 
a  part.  He  hadn't  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  would  be 
able  to  succeed  in  the  work  for  which  he  had  been  recom- 
mended, for  apart  from  his  music — which  had  taken  so 
many  of  his  hours — there  was  nothing  that  he  knew  more 
about  or  loved  better  than  the  trees.  He  had  provided 
himself  the  afternoon  before  with  two  books  by  American 
authorities  and  other  books  and  monographs  were  to  be 
forwarded  to  his  new  address. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs  and  reached  the  main 
floor  of  the  station,  his  glance  caught  the  gaze  of  a  man 
staring  at  him  intently.  The  man  was  slender  and  dark, 
dressed  decently  enough  in  a  gray  suit  and  soft  hat  and 
wore  a  small  black  mustache.  All  of  these  facts  Peter 
took  note  of  in  the  one  glance,  arrested  by  the  strange 
stare  of  the  other,  which  lingered  while  Peter  glanced  away 
and  went  on.  Peter,  who  had  an  excellent  memory  for 
faces,  was  sure  that  he  had  never  seen  the  man  before, 
but  after  he  had  taken  a  few  steps,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
in  the  stranger's  eyes  he  had  noted  the  startled  distention 
of  surprise  and  recognition.  And  so  he  stopped  and 
turned,  but  as  he  did  so  the  fellow  dropped  his  gaze  sud- 
denly, and  turned  and  walked  away.  The  incident  was 
curious  and  rather  interesting.  If  Peter  had  had  more 
time  he  would  have  sought  out  the  fellow  and  asked  him 
36 


NEW  YOEK 


why  he  was  staring  at  him,  but  there  were  only  a  few 
moments  to  spare  and  he  made  his  way  out  to  the  con- 
course where  he  found  his  gate  and  descended  to  his  train. 
Here  he  ensconced  himself  comfortably  in  the  smoking 
car,  and  was  presently  shot  under  the  Hudson  River  (as 
he  afterwards  discovered)  and  out  into  the  sunshine  of 
the  flats  of  New  Jersey. 

He  rolled  smoothly  along  through  the  manufacturing 
and  agricultural  districts,  his  keenly  critical  glances  neg- 
lecting nothing  of  the  waste  and  abundance  on  all  sides. 
He  saw,  too,  the  unlovely  evidences  of  poverty  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  cities,  which  brought  to  his  mind  other  com- 
munities in  a  far  country  whose  physical  evidences  of 
prosperity  were  no  worse,  if  no  better,  than  these.  Then 
there  came  a  catch  in  his  throat  and  a  gasp  which  left 
him  staring  but  seeing  nothing.  The  feeling  was  not  nos- 
talgia, for  that  far  country  was  no  home  for  him  now. 
At  last  he  found  himself  muttering  to  himself  in  English, 
"My  home — my  home  is  here." 

After  a  while  the  mood  of  depression,  recurrent  moments 
of  which  had  come  to  him  in  New  York  with  diminishing 
frequency,  passed  into  one  of  contemplation,  of  calm, 
like  those  which  had  followed  his  nights  of  passion  on  the 
Dnieper,  and  at  last  he  closed  his  eyes  and  dozed.  Visions 
of  courts  and  camps  passed  through  his  mind — of  bril- 
liant uniforms  and  jeweled  decorations;  of  spacious  pol- 
ished halls,  resplendent  with  ornate  mirrors  and  crystal 
pendant  chandeliers;  of  diamond  coronets,  of  silks  and 
satins  and  powdered  flunkies.  And  then  other  visions  of 
gray  figures  crouched  in  the  mud;  of  rain  coming  out  of 
the  dark  and  of  ominous  lights  over  the  profile  of  low 
hills ;  of  shrieks ;  of  shells  and  cries  of  terror ;  of  his 
cousin,  a  tall,  bearded  man  on  a  horse  in  a  ravine  waving 
an  imperious  arm ;  of  confusion  and  moving  thousands,  the 
creak  of  sanitars,  the  groans  of  men  calling  upon  mothers 
37 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


they  would  never  see.  And  then  with  a  leap  backward 
over  the  years,  the  vision  of  a  small  man  huddled  against 
the  wall  of  a  courtyard  being  knouted  until  red  stains 
appeared  on  his  gray  blouse  and  then  mingled  faintly  in 
the  mist  and  the  rain  until  the  small  man  sank  to  the  full 
length  of  his  imprisoned  arms  like  one  crucified.  .  .  . 

Peter  Nichols  straightened  and  passed  a  hand  across 
his  damp  forehead.  Through  the  perspective  of  this  mod- 
ern civilization  what  had  been  passing  before  his  vision 
seemed  very  vague,  very  distant,  but  he  knew  that  it  was 
not  a  dream.  .  .  . 

All  about  him  was  life,  progress,  industry,  hope — a  na- 
tion in  the  making,  proud  of  her  brief  history  which  had 
been  built  around  an  ideal.  If  he  coulS  bring  this  same 
ideal  back  to  Russia !  In  his  heart  he  thanked  God  for 
America — imperfect  though  she  was,  and  made  a  vow  that 
in  the  task  he  had  set  for  himself  he  should  not  be  found 
wanting. 

Twice  he  changed  trains,  the  second  time  at  a  small 
junction  amid  an  ugliness  of  clay-pits  and  brickyards 
and  dust  and  heat.  There  were  perhaps  twenty  people  on 
the  platform.  He  walked  the  length  of  the  station  and  as 
he  did  so  a  man  in  a  gray  suit  disappeared  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  building.  But  Peter  Nichols  did  not  see  him, 
and  in  a  moment,  seated  in  his  new  train  in  a  wooden  car 
which  reminded  him  of  some  of  the  ancient  rolling  stock 
of  the  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow  Railroad,  he  was  taken 
haltingly  and  noisily  along  the  last  stage  of  his  journey. 

But  he  was  aware  of  the  familiar  odor  of  the  pine  bal- 
sam in  his  nostrils,  and  as  he  rolled  through  dark  coverts 
the  scent  of  the  growing  things  in  the  hidden  places  in  the 
coolth  and  damp  of  the  sandy  loam.  He  saw,  too,  tea- 
colored  streams  idling  among  the  sedges  and  charred 
wildernesses  of  trees  appealing  mutely  with  their  black- 
ened stumps  like  wounded  creatures  in  pain,  a  bit  of  war- 
88 


NEW  YORK 


torn  Galicia  in  the  midst  of  peace.  Miles  and  miles  of 
dead  forest  land,  forgotten  and  uncared  for.  There  was 
need  here  for  his  services. 

With  a  wheeze  of  steam  and  a  loud  crackling  of  wood- 
work and  creaking  of  brakes  the  train  came  to  a  stop 
and  the  conductor  shouted  the  name  of  the  station.  Rather 
stiffly  the  traveler  descended  with  his  bag  and  stood  upon 
the  small  platform  looking  about  him  curiously.  The 
baggage  man  tossed  out  a  bundle  of  newspapers  and  a 
pouch  of  mail  and  the  train  moved  off.  Apparently  Peter 
Nichols  was  the  only  passenger  with  Pickerel  River  as  a 
destination. 

And  as  the  panting  train  went  around  a  curve,  at  last 
disappearing,  it  seemed  fairly  reasonable  to  Peter  Nichols 
that  no  one  with  the  slightest  chance  of  stopping  off  any- 
where else  would  wish  to  get  off  here.  The  station  was 
small,  of  but  one  room  and  a  tiny  office  containing,  as  he 
could  see,  a  telegraph  instrument,  a  broken  chair  with  a 
leather  cushion,  a  shelf  and  a  rack  containing  a  few 
soiled  slips  of  paper,  but  the  office  had  no  occupant  and 
the  door  was  locked.  This  perhaps  explained  the  absence 
of  the  automobile  which  Mr.  Sheldon  had  informed  him 
would  meet  him  in  obedience  to  his  telegram  announcing 
the  hour  of  his  arrival.  Neither  within  the  building  nor 
without  was  there  any  person  or  animate  thing  in  sight, 
except  some  small  birds  fluttering  and  quarreling  along 
the  telegraph  wires. 

There  was  but  one  road,  a  sandy  one,  wearing  marks  of 
travel,  which  emerged  from  the  scrub  oak  and  pine  and 
definitely  concluded  at  the  railroad  track.  This,  then, 
was  his  direction,  and  after  reasurring  himself  that  there 
was  no  other  means  of  egress,  he  took  up  his  black  suit- 
case and  set  forth  into  the  wood,  aware  of  a  sense  of 
beckoning  adventure.  The  road  wound  in  and  out,  up 
and  down,  over  what  at  one  time  must  have  been  the  floor 
39 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


of  the  ocean,  which  could  not  be  far  distant.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  weight  of  his  bag  Peter  would  have  enjoyed 
the  experience  of  this  complete  isolation,  the  fragrant 
silences  broken  only  by  the  whisper  of  the  leaves  and  the 
scurrying  of  tiny  wild  things  among  the  dead  tree 
branches.  But  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  how  far  he 
would  have  to  travel  or  whether,  indeed,  there  had  not  been 
some  mistake  on  Sheldon,  Senior's,  part  or  his  own.  But 
the  directions  had  been  quite  clear  and  the  road  must  of 
course  lead  somewhere — to  some  village  or  settlement  at 
least  where  he  could  get  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

And  so  he  trudged  on  through  the  woods  which  already 
seemed  to  be  partaking  of  some  of  the  mystery  which  sur- 
rounded the  person  of  Jonathan  K.  McGuire.  The  whole 
incident  had  been  unusual  and  the  more  interesting  be- 
cause of  the  strange  character  of  his  employer  and  the 
evident  fear  he  had  of  some  latent  evil  which  threatened 
him.  But  Peter  Nichols  had  accepted  his  commission  with 
a  sense  of  profound  relief  at  escaping  the  other  fate  that 
awaited  him,  with  scarcely  a  thought  of  the  dangers  which 
his  acceptance  might  entail.  He  was  not  easily  frightened 
and  had  welcomed  the  new  adventure,  dismissing  the  fears 
of  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  as  imaginary,  the  emanations  of 
age  or  an  uneasy  conscience. 

But  as  he  went  on,  his  bag  became  heavier  and  the  per- 
spiration poured  down  his  face,  so  reaching  a  cross-path 
that  seemed  to  show  signs  of  recent  travel  he  put  the  suit- 
case down  and  sat  on  it  while  he  wiped  his  brow.  The 
shadows  were  growing  longer.  He  was  beginning  to  be- 
lieve that  there  was  no  such  place  as  Black  Rock,  no  such 
person  as  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  and  that  Sheldon,  Senior, 
and  Sheldon,  Junior,  were  engaged  in  a  conspiracy  against 
his  peace  of  mind,  when  above  the  now  familiar  whisper- 
ings of  the  forest  he  heard  a  new  sound.  Faintly  it  came 
at  first  as  though  from  a  great  distance,  mingling  with 
40 


NEW  YORK 


the  murmur  of  the  sighing  wind  in  the  pine  trees,  a  voice 
singing.  It  seemed  a  child's  voice — delicate,  clear,  true, 
as  care-free  as  the  note  of  a  bird — unleashing  its  joy  to 
the  heavens. 

Peter  Nichols  started  up,  listening  more  intently.  The 
sounds  were  coming  nearer  but  he  couldn't  tell  from  which 
direction,  for  every  leaf  seemed  to  be  taking  up  the  lovely 
melody  which  he  could  hear  quite  clearly  now.  It  was  an 
air  with  which  he  was  unfamiliar,  but  he  knew  only  that  it 
was  elemental  in  its  simplicity  and  under  these  circum- 
stances startlingly  welcome.  He  waited  another  long  mo- 
ment, listening,  found  the  direction  from  which  the  voice 
was  coming,  and  presently  noted  the  swaying  of  branches 
and  the  crackling  of  dry  twigs  in  the  path  near  by,  from 
which,  in  a  moment,  a  strange  figure  emerged. 

At  first  he  thought  it  was  a  boy,  for  it  wore  a  pair  of 
blue  denim  overalls  and  a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat,  from 
beneath  which  the  birdlike  notes  were  still  emitted,  but 
as  the  figure  paused  at  the  sight  of  him,  the  song  suddenly 
ceased — he  saw  a  tumbled  mass  of  tawny  hair  and  a  pair 
of  startled  blue  eyes  staring  at  him. 

"Hello,"  said  the  figure,  after  a  moment,  recovering  its 
voice. 

"Good-afternoon,"  said  Peter  Nichols,  bowing  from  the 
waist  in  the  most  approved  Continental  manner.  You  see 
he,  too,  was  a  little  startled  by  the  apparition,  which 
proclaimed  itself  beneath  its  strange  garments  in  unmis- 
takable terms  to  be  both  feminine  and  lovely. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  OVERALL  GIRL 

THEY  stood  for  a  long  moment  regarding  each  other, 
both  in1  curiosity ;  Peter  because  of  the  contrariety 
of  the  girl's  face  and  garments,  the  girl  because 
of  Peter's  bow,  which  was  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
that  had  ever  happened  in  Burlington  County.     After  a 
pause,  a  smile  which  seemed  to  have  been  hovering  uncer- 
tainly around  the  corners  of  her  lips  broke  into  a  frank 
grin,  disclosing  dimples  and  a  row  of  white  teeth,  the  front 
ones  not  quite  together. 

"Could  you  tell  me,"  asked  Peter  very  politely  as  he 
found  his  voice,  "if  this  road  leads  to  Black  Rock?" 

She  was  still  scrutinizing  him,  her  head,  birdlike,  upon 
one  side. 

"That  depends  on  which  way  you're  walkin',"  she  said. 

She  dropped  her  "g"  with  careless  ease,  but  then  Peter 
had  noticed  that  many  Americans  and  English  people, 
some  very  nice  ones,  did  that. 

Peter  glanced  at  the  girl  and  then  down  the  road  in 
both  directions. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  he  said,  not  sure  whether  she  was 
smiling  at  or  with  him.  "I  came  from  a  station  called 
Pickerel  River  and  I  wish  to  go  to  Black  Rock." 

"You're  sure  you  want  to  go  there?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"I  guess  that's  because  you've  never  been  to  Black 
Rock,  Mister." 

"No,  I  haven't." 

42 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


The  girl  picked  a  shrub  and  nibbled  at  it  daintily. 

"You'd  better  turn  and  go  right  back."  Her  sentence 
finished  in  a  shrug. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Black  Rock?"  he  asked  cu- 
riously. 

"It's  just  the  little  end  of  nothin'.  That's  all,"  she 
finished  decisively. 

The  quaint  expression  interested  him.  "I  must  get 
there,  nevertheless,"  he  said ;  "is  it  far  from  here  ?" 

"Depends  on  what  you  call  far.  Mile  or  so.  Didn't 
the  'Lizzie'  meet  the  six-thirty?"  • 

Peter  stared  at  her  vacuously,  for  this  was  Greek. 

"The 'Lizzie'?" 

"The  tin  *Lizzie' — Jim  Hagerman's  bus — carries  the 
mail  and  papers.  Sometimes  he  gives  me  a  lift  about 
here." 

"No.  There  was  no  conveyance  of  any  sort  and  I  really 
expected  one.  I  wish  to  get  to  M/r.  Jonathan  K.  Mc- 
Guire's." 

"Oh!" 

The  girl  had  been  examining  Peter  furtively,  as  though 
trying  vainly  to  place  him  definitely  in  her  mental  col- 
lection of  human  bipeds.  Now  she  stared  at  him  with 
interest. 

"Oh,  you're  goin'  to  McGuire's !" 

Peter  nodded.     "If  I  can  ever  find  the  way." 

"You're  one  of  the  new  detectives?" 

"Detective !"  Peter  laughed.  "No.  Not  that  I'm  aware. 
I'm  the  new  superintendent  and  forester." 

*Oh!" 

The  girl  was  visibly  impressed,  but  a  tiny  frown  puck- 
ered her  brow. 

"What's  a  forester?"  she  asked. 

"A  fellow  who  looks  after  the  forests." 
43 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"The  forests  don't  need  any  lookin'  after  out  here  in 
the  barrens.  They  just  grow." 

"I'm  going  to  teach  them  to  grow  better." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  for  a  long  moment  of  suspicion. 
She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  the  ruddy  sunlight  behind 
her  made  a  golden  halo  all  about  her  head.  Her  hands 
he  had  noted  were  small,  the  fingers  slender.  Her  nose 
was  well  shaped,  her  nostrils  wide,  the  angle  of  her  jaw 
firmly  modeled  and  her  slender  figure  beneath  the  absurd 
garments  reve'aled  both  strength  and  grace.  But  he  did 
not  dare  to  stare  at  her  too  hard  or  to  question  her  as 
to  her  garments.  For  all  that  Peter  knew  it  might  be 
the  custom  of  Burlington  County  for  women  to  wear  blue 
denim  trousers. 

And  her  next  question  took  him  off  his  guard. 

"You  city  folk  don't  think  much  of  yourselves,  do 
you?" 

"I  don't  exactly  understand  what  you  mean,"  said 
Peter  politely,  marking  the  satirical  note. 

"To  think  you  can  make  these  trees  grow  better!"  she 
sniffed. 

"Oh,  I'm  just  going  to  help  them  to  help  themselves." 

"That's  God's  job,  Master." 

Peter  smiled.  She  wouldn't  have  understood,  he  thought, 
so  what  was  the  use  of  explaining.  There  must  have  been 
a  superior  quality  in  Peter's  smile,  for  the  girl  put  on 
her  hatband  came  down  into  the  road. 

"I'm  goin'  to  Black  Rock,"  she  said  stiffly,  "follow 
me."  And  she  went  off  with  a  quick  stride  down  the  road. 

Peter  Nichols  took  up  his  bag  and  started,  with  diffi- 
culty getting  to  a  place  beside  her. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "I'd  much  rather  walk 
with  you  than  behind  you." 

She  shrugged  a  shoulder  at  him. 

"Suit  yourself,"  she  said. 
44 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


In  this  position,  Peter  made  the  discovery  that  her 
profile  was  quite  as  interesting  as  her  full  face,  but  she 
no  longer  smiled.  Her  reference  to  the  Deity  entirely 
eliminated  Peter  and  the  profession  of  forestry  from  the 
pale  of  useful  things.  He  was  sorry  that  she  no  longer 
smiled  because  he  had  decided  to  make  friends  at  Black 
Rock  and  he  didn't  want  to  make  a  bad  beginning. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  said  Peter  at  last,  "if  I  tell 
you  that  you  have  one  of  the  loveliest  voices  that  I  have 
ever  heard." 

He  marked  with  pleasure  the  sudden  flush  of  color  that 
ran  up  under  her  delicately  freckled  tan.  Her  lips  parted 
and  she  turned  to  him  hesitating. 

"You — you  heard  me !" 

"I  did.    It  was  like  the  voice  of  an  angel  in  Heaven." 

"Angel!  Oh!  I'm  sorry.  I — I  didn't  know  any  one 
was  there.  I  just  sing  on  my  way  home  from  work." 

"You've  been  working  to-day?" 

She  nodded.     "Yes— Farmerettin'." 

"Farmer ?" 

"Workin'  in  the  vineyard  at  Gaskill's." 

"Oh,  I  see.    Do  you  like  it?" 

"No,"  she  said  dryly.  "I  just  do  it  for  my  health. 
Don't  I  look  sick?" 

Peter  wasn't  used  to  having  people  make  fun  of  him. 
Even  as  a  waiter  he  had  managed  to  preserve  his  dignity 
intact.  But  he  smiled  at  her. 

"I  was  wondering  what  had  become  of  the  men  around 
here." 

"They're  so  busy  walkin'  from  one  place  to  another  to 
see  where  they  can  get  the  highest  wages,  that  there's  no 
time  to  work  in  between." 

"I  see,"  said  Peter,  now  really  amused.  "And  does 
Mr.  Jonathan  McGuire  have  difficulty  in  getting  men  to 
work  for  him?" 

45 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Most  of  his  hired  help  come  from  away — like  you 

But  lately  they  haven't  been  stayin'  long." 

"Why?" 

She  slowed  her  pace  a  little  and  turned  to  look  at  him 
curiously. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  know  the  kind  of  a  job 
you've  got  ?" 

"Not  much,"  admitted  Peter.  "In  addition  to  look- 
ing after  the  preserve,  I'm  to  watch  after  the  men — and 
obey  orders,  I  suppose." 

"H-m.     Preserve!     Sorry,  Mr.  what's  your  name " 

"Peter  Nichols "  put  in  Peter  promptly. 

"Well,  Mr.  Peter  Nichols,  all  I  have  to  say  is  that  you're 
apt  to  have  a  hard  time." 

"Yes,  I'm  against  it !"  translated  Peter  confidently. 

The  girl  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  put  her 
hands  on  her  hips  and  laughed  up  at  the  purpling  sky. 
Her  laugh  was  much  like  her  singing — if  angels  in  Para- 
dise laugh  (and  why  shouldn't  they?).  Then  while  he 
wondered  what  was  so  amusing  she  looked  at  him  again. 

"Up  against  it,  you  mean.  You're  English,  aren't  you?" 

"Er— yes— I  am." 

"I  thought  so.  There  was  one  of  you  in  the  glass  fac- 
tory. He  always  muffed  the  easy  ones." 

"Oh,  you  work  in  a  glass  factory?" 

"Winters.  Manufacturin'  whiskey  and  beer  bottles. 
Now  we're  goin'  dry,  they'll  be  makin*  pop  and  nursin' 
bottles,  I  guess.'* 

"Do  you  help  in  the  factory?" 

"Yes,  and  in  the  office.  I  can  shorthand  and  type  a 
little." 

"You  must  be  glad  when  a  summer  comes." 

"I  am.  In  winter  I  can't  turn  around  without  break- 
in'  something.  They  dock  you  for  that " 

46 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


"And  that's  why  you  sing  when  you  can't  break  any- 
thin'?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  like  the  open.  It  isn't  right  to  be 
cooped  up." 

They  were  getting  along  beautifully  and  Peter  was. 
even  beginning  to  forget  the  weight  of  his  heavy  bag. 
She  was  a  quaint  creature  and  quite  as  unconscious  of 
him  as  though  he  hadn't  existed.  He  was  just  somebody 
to  talk  to.  Peter  ventured. 

"Er — would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?'* 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed  friendly. 

"You  must  have  swallowed  a  catechism,  Mr.  Nichols. 
But  everybody  in  Black  Rock  knows  everybody  else — 
more'n  they  want  to,  I  guess.  There's  no  reason  I  shouldn't 
tell  you.  I  don't  mind  your  knowin'.  My  name  is  Beth 
Cameron." 

"Beth ?" 

"Yes,  Bess — the  minister  had  a  lisp." 

Peter  didn't  lack  a  sense  of  humor. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  she  queried  with  a  smile  as  he 
laughed,  "bein*  tied  up  for  life  to  a  name  like  that  just 
because  the  parson  couldn't  talk  straight." 

"Beth,"  he  repeated,  "but  I  like  it.  It's  like  you.  I 
hope  you'll  let  me  come  to  see  you  when  I  get  settled." 

"H-m,"  she  said  quizzically.  "You  don't  believe  in 
wastin'  your  time,  do  you?"  And  then,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "You  know  they  call  us  Pineys  back  here  in  the 
barrens,  but  just  the  same  we  think  a  lot  of  ourselves  and 
we're  a  little  offish  with  city  folks.  You  can't  be  too  par- 
ticular nowadays  about  the  kind  of  people  you  go  with." 

Peter  stared  at  her  and  grinned,  his  sense  of  the  situ- 
ation more  keenly  touched  than  she  could  be  aware  of. 

"Particular,  are  you?  I'm  glad  of  that.  All  the  more 
credit  to  me  if  you'll  be  my  friend." 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  your  friend." 
47 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"But  you're  going  to  be,  aren't  you?  I  know  something 
about  singing.  I've  studied  music.  Perhaps  I  could  help 
you." 

"You!  You've  studied?  Lord  of  Love!  You're  not 
lyin',  are  you?" 

He  laughed.  "No.  I'm  not  lying.  I  was  educated  to 
be  a  musician." 

She  stared  at  him  now  with  a  new  look  in  her  eyes  but 
said  nothing.  So  Peter  spoke  again. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  never  thought  of  studying 
singing?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  slowly  at  last,  "I've  thought  of  it, 
just  as  I've  thought  of  goin'  in  the  movies  and  makin'  a 
million  dollars.  Lots  of  good  thinkin'  does !" 

"You've  thought  of  the  movies?" 

"Yes,  once.  A  girl  went  from  the  glass  factory.  She 
does  extra  ladies.  She  visited  back  here  last  winter.  I 
didn't  like  what  it  did  to  her." 

"Oh!"  Peter  was  silent  for  a  while,  aware  of  the  pel- 
lucid meaning  of  her  "it."  He  was  learning  quite  as  much 
from  what  she  didn't  say  as  from  what  she  did.  But  he 
evaded  the  line  of  thought  suggested. 

"You  do  get  tired  of  Black  Rock  then?" 

"I  would  if  I  had  time.  I'm  pretty  busy  all  day,  and — 
see  here — Mr. — er — Nichols.  If  I  asked  as  many  ques- 
tions as  you  do,  I'd  know  as  much  as  Daniel  Webster." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Peter,  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  Peter 
puzzling  his  brain  over  the  extraordinary  creature  that 
chance  had  thrown  in  his  way.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
quite  capable  of  looking  out  for  herself  and  that  if  her 
smattering  of  sophistication  had  opened  her  eyes,  it  hadn't 
much  harmed  her. 

He  really  wanted  to  ask  her  many  more  questions,  but 
to  tell  the  truth  he  was  a  little  in  awe  of  her  dry  humor 
48 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


which  had  a  kind  of  primitive  omniscience  and  of  her 
laughter  which  he  was  now  sure  was  more  at,  than  with, 
him.  But  he  had,  in  spite  of  her,  peered  for  a  moment  into 
the  hidden  places  of  her  mind  and  spirit. 

It  was  this  intrusion  that  she  resented  and  he  could 
hardly  blame  her,  since  they  had  met  only  eighteen  min- 
utes ago.  She  trotted  along  beside  him  as  though  quite 
unaware  of  the  sudden  silence  or  of  the  thoughts  that 
might  have  been  passing  in  his  mind.  It  was  Beth  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"Is  your  bag  heavy?"  she  asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Peter,  mopping  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead.  "But  aren't  we  nearly  there?" 

"Oh,  yes.    It's  just  a  mile  or  so." 

Peter  dropped  his  bag. 

"That's  what  you  said  it  was,  back  there." 

"Did  I?  Well,  maybe  it  isn't  so  far  as  that  now.  Let 
me  carry  your  bag  a  while." 

Thus  taunted,  he  rose,  took  the  bag  in  his  left  hand  and 
followed. 

"City  folks  aren't  much  on  doin'  for  themselves,  are 
they?  The  taxi  system  is  very  poor  down  here  yet." 

Her  face  was  expressionless,  but  he  knew  that  she  was 
laughing  at  him.  He  knew  also  that  his  bag  weighed  more 
than  any  army  pack.  It  seemed  too  that  she  was  walking 
much  faster  than  she  had  done  before — also  that  there 
was  malicious  humor  in  the  smile  she  now  turned  on  him. 

"Seems  a  pity  to  have  such  a  long  walk — with  nothin'  at 
the  end  of  it." 

"I  don't  mind  it  in  the  least,"  gasped  Peter.  "And  if 
you  don't  object  to  my  asking  you  just  one  more  ques- 
tion," he  went  on  grimly,  "I'd  like  you  to  tell  me  what  is 
frightening  Mr.  Jonathan  K.  McGuire?" 

"Oh,  McGuire.  I  don't  know.  Nobody  does.  He's 
been  here  a  couple  of  weeks  now,  cooped  up  in  the  big 
49 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


house.  Never  comes  out.  They  say  he  sees  ghosts  and 
things." 

"Ghosts !" 

She  nodded.  "He's  hired  some  of  the  men  around  here 
to  keep  watch  for  them  and  they  say  some  detectives  are 
coming.  You'll  help  too,  I  guess." 

"That  should  be  easy." 

"Maybe.  I  don't  know.  My  aunt  works  there.  She's 
housekeeper.  It's  spooky,  she  says,  but  she  can't  afford 
to  quit." 

"But  they  haven't  seen  anything?"  asked  Peter  incred- 
ulously. 

"No.  Not  yet.  I  guess  it  might  relieve  'em  some  if 
they  did.  It's  only  the  things  you  don't  see  that  scare 
you." 

"It  sounds  like  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  about  nothing," 
muttered  Peter. 

"All  right.  Wait  until  you  get  there  before  you  do 
much  talkin'." 

"I  will,  but  I'm  not  afraid  of  ghosts."  And  then,  as 
an  afterthought,  "Are  you?" 

"Not  ia  daylight.  But  from  what  Aunt  Tillie  says,  it 
must  be  something  more  than  a  ghost  that's  frightenin' 
Jonathan  K.  McGuire." 

"What  does  she  think  it  is?" 

"She  doesn't  know.  Mr.  McGuire  won't  say.  He  won't 
allow  anybody  around  the  house  without  a  pass.  Oh,  he's 
scared  all  right  and  he's  got  most  of  Black  Rock  scared 
too.  He  was  never  like  this  before." 

"Are  you  scared?"  asked  Peter. 

"No.  I  don't  think  I  am  really.  But  it's  spooky,  and 
I  don't  care  much  for  shootin'." 

"What  makes  you  think  there  will  be  shooting?" 

"On  account  of  the  guns  and  pistols.  Whatever  the 
thing  is  he's  afraid  of,  he's  not  goin'  to  let  it  come  near 
50 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


him  if  he  can  help  it.  Aunt  Tillie  says  that  what  with 
loaded  rifles,  shotguns  and  pistols  lyin'  loose  in  every  room 
in  the  house,  it's  as  much  as  your  life  is  worth  to  do  a 
bit  of  dustin'.  And  the  men — Shad  Wells,  Jesse  Brown, 
they  all  carry  automatics.  First  thing  they  know  they'll 
be  killin'  somebody,"  she  finished  with  conviction. 

"Who  is  Shad  Wells ?" 

"My  cousin,  Shadrack  E.  Wells.  He  was  triplets.  The 
other  two  died." 

"Shad,"  mused  Peter. 

"Sounds  like  a  fish,  doesn't  it?  But  he  isn't."  And 
then  more  slowly,  "Shad's  all  right.  He's  just  a  plain 
woodsman,  but  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  making 
the  trees  grow,"  she  put  in  with  prim  irony.  "You'll  be 
his  boss,  I  guess.  He  won't  care  much  about  that." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he's  been  runnin'  things  in  a  way.  I  hope  you 
get  along  with  him." 

"So  do  I " 

"Because  if  you  don't,  Shad  will  eat  you  at  one  gobble." 

"Oh !"  said  Peter  with  a  smile.  "But  perhaps  you  ex- 
aggerate. Don't  you  think  I  might  take  two — er — gob- 
bles?" 

Beth  looked  him  over,  and  then  smiled  encouragingly. 

"Maybe,"  she  said,  "but  your  hands  don't  look  over- 
strong." 

Peter  looked  at  his  right  hand  curiously.  It  was  not  as 
brown  as  hers,  but  the  fingers  were  long  and  sinewy. 

"They  are,  though.  When  you  practice  five  hours  a  day 
on  the  piano,  your  hands  will  do  almost  anything  you  want 
them  to." 

A  silence  which  Peter  improved  by  shifting  his  suitcase. 

The  weight  of  it  had  ceased  to  be  amusing.    And  he  was 

about  to  ask  her  how  much  further  Black  Rock  was  when 

there  was  a  commotion  down  the  road  ahead  of  them,  as 

51 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


a  dark  object  emerged  from  around  the  bend  and  amid  a 
whirl  of  dust  an  automobile  appeared. 

"It's  the  'Lizzie',"  exclaimed  Beth  unemotionally. 

And  in  a  moment  the  taxi  service  of  Black  Rock  was  at 
Peter's  disposal. 

"Carburetor  trouble,"  explained  the  soiled  young  man 
at  the  wheel  briefly,  without  apology.  And  with  a  glance 
at  Peter's  bag — 

"Are  you  the  man  for  McGuire's  on  the  six-thirty?" 

Peter  admitted  that  he  was  and  the  boy  swung  the 
door  of  the  tonneau  open. 

"In  here  with  me,  Beth,"  he  said  to  the  girl  invitingly. 

In  a  moment,  the  small  machine  was  whirled  around  and 
started  in  the  direction  from  which  it  had  come,  bouncing 
Peter  from  side  to  side  and  enveloping  him  in  dust.  Jim 
Hagerman's  "Lizzie"  wasted  no  time,  once  it  set  about 
doing  a  thing,  and  in  a  few  moments  from  the  forest  they 
emerged  into  a  clearing  wherte  there  were  cows  in  a 
meadow,  and  a  view  of  houses.  At  the  second  of  these,  a 
frame  house  with  a  portico  covered  with  vines  and  a  small 
yard  with  a  geranium  bed,  all  enclosed  in  a  picket  fence, 
the  "Lizzie"  suddenly  stopped  and  Beth  got  down. 

"Much  obliged,  Jim,"  he  heard  her  say. 

Almost  before  Peter  had  swept  off  his  hat  and  the  girl 
had  nodded,  the  "Lizzie"  was  off  again,  through  the  vil- 
lage street,  and  so  to  a  wooden  bridge  across  a  tea-colored 
stream,  up  a  slight  grade  on  the  other  side,  where  Jim 
Hagerman  stopped  his  machine  and  pointed  to  a  road. 

"That's  McGuire's — in  the  pines.  They  won't  let  me 
go  no  further." 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  asked  Peter,  getting  down. 

"It's  paid  for,  Mister.  Slam  the  door,  will  ye?"  And 
in  another  moment  Peter  was  left  alone. 

It  was  now  after  sunset,  and  the  depths  of  the  wood 
were  bathed  in  shadow.  Peter  took  the  road  indicated  and 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


in  a  moment  reached  two  stone  pillars  where  a  man  was 
standing.  Beyond  the  man  he  had  a  glimpse  of  lawns, 
a  well-kept  driveway  which  curved  toward  the  wood.  The 
man  at  the  gate  was  of  about  Peter's  age  but  tall  and 
angular,  well  tanned  by  exposure  and  gave  an  appearance 
of  intelligence  and  capacity. 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  McGuire,"  said  Peter  amiably. 

"And  what's  your  name?" 

"Nichols.     I'm  the  new  forester  from  New  York." 

The  young  man  at  the  gate  smiled  in  a  satirical  way. 

"Nichols.  That  was  the  name,"  he  ruminated.  And 
then  with  a  shout  to  some  one  in  the  woods  below,  "Hey, 
Andy.  Come  take  the  gate." 

All  the  while  Peter  felt  the  gaze  of  the  young  man  go- 
ing over  him  minutely  and  found  himself  wondering 
whether  or  not  this  was  the  person  who  was  going  to  take 
him  at  a  gobble. 

It  was.  For  when  the  other  man  came  running  Peter 
heard  him  call  the  gateman,  "Shad." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Shad  Wells?"  asked  Peter  politely  with 
the  pleasant  air  of  one  who  has  made  an  agreeable  dis- 
covery. 

"That's  my  name.    Who  told  you?" 

"Miss  Beth  Cameron,"  replied  Peter.  "We  came  part 
of  the  way  together." 

"H-m !  Come,"  he  said  laconically  and  led  the  way 
up  the  road  toward  the  house.  Peter  didn't  think  he  was 
very  polite. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  precautions  of  his  guide,  Peter 
would  have  been  willing  quite  easily  to  forget  the  tales 
that  had  been  told  him  of  Black  Rock.  The  place  was 
very  prettily  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  very  fine  growth 
of  pines,  spruce  and  maple.  At  one  side  ran  the  tea-col- 
ored stream,  tumbling  over  an  ancient  dam  to  levels  below, 
where  it  joined  the  old  race  below  the  ruin  that  had  once 
53 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


been  a  mill.  The  McGuire  house  emerged  in  a  moment 
from  its  woods  and  shrubbery,  and  stood  revealed — a 
plain  square  Georgian  dwelling  of  brick,  to  which  had  been 
added  a  long  wing  in  a  poor  imitation  of  the  same  style 
and  a  garage  and  stables  in  no  style  at  all  on  the  slope 
beyond.  It  seemed  a  most  prosaic  place  even  in  the  gath- 
ering dusk  and  Peter  seemed  quite  unable  to  visualize  it 
as  the  center  of  a  mystery  such  as  had  been  described. 
And  the  laconic  individual  who  had  been  born  triplets 
was  even  less  calculated  to  carry  out  such  an  illusion. 

But  just  as  they  were  crossing  the  lawn  on  the  approach 
to  the  house,  the  earth  beneath  a  clump  of  bushes  vomited 
forth  two  men,  like  the  fruit  of  the  Dragon's  Teeth,  armed 
with  rifles,  who  barred  their  way.  Both  men  were  grinning 
from  ear  to  ear. 

"All  right,  Jesse,"  said  Shad  with  a  laugh.  "It's  me 
and  the  new  forester."  He  uttered  the  words  with  an  un- 
deniable accent  of  contempt. 

The  armed  figures  glanced  at  Peter  and  disappeared, 
and  Peter  and  Mr.  Shad  Wells  went  up  the  steps  of  the 
house  to  a  spacious  portico.  There  was  not  a  human  be- 
ing in  sight  and  the  heavy  wooden  blinds  to  the  lower  floor 
were  tightly  shut.  Before  his  guide  had  even  reached  the 
door  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  aroused  some  one 
within  the  house,  the  door  was  opened  the  length  of  its 
chain  and  a  face  appeared  at  the  aperture. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  a  male  voice. 

"Shad  Wells  and  Mr.  Nichols,  the  man  from  New 
York." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  was  the  reply  while  the  door  was  im- 
mediately shut  again. 

Peter  glanced  around  him  comparing  this  strange  situ- 
ation with  another  that  he  remembered,  when  a  real  ter- 
ror had  come,  a  tangible  terror  in  the  shape  of  a  country- 
side gone  mad  with  blood  lust.  He  smiled  toward  the 
54 


THE  OVERALL  GIRL 


bush  where  the  armed  men  lay  concealed  and  toward  the 
gate  where  the  other  armed  man  was  standing.  It  was  all 
so  like  a  situation  out  of  an  opera  bouffe  of  Offenbach. 

What  he  felt  now  in  this  strange  situation  was  an  in- 
tense curiosity  to  learn  the  meaning  of  it  all,  to  meet  the 
mysterious  person  around  whom  all  these  preparations 
centered.  Peter  had  known  fear  many  times,  for  fear  was 
in  the  air  for  weeks  along  the  Russian  front,  the  fear  of 
German  shells,  of  poison  gas,  and  of  that  worst  poison 
of  all — Russian  treachery.  But  that  fear  was  not  like 
this  fear,  which  was  intimate,  personal  but  intangible.  He 
marked  it  in  the  scrutiny  of  the  man  who  opened  the  door 
and  of  the  aged  woman  who  suddenly  appeared  beside  him 
in  the  dim  hallway  and  led  him  noiselessly  up  the  stair 
to  a  lighted  room  upon  the  second  floor.  At  the  doorway 
the  woman  paused. 

"Mr.  Nichols,  Mr.  McGuire,"  she  said,  and  Peter 
entered. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  JOB 

THE  room  was  full  of  tobacco  smoke,  through  which 
Peter  dimly  made  out  a  table  with  an  oil  lamp, 
beside  which  were  chairs,  a  sofa,  and  beyond,  a 
steel  safe  between  the  windows.  As  Peter  Nichols  entered, 
a  man  advanced  from  a  window  at  the  side,  the  shutter  of 
which  was  slightly  ajar.  It  was  evident  that  not  content 
to  leave  his  safety  in  the  hands  of  those  he  had  employed 
to  preserve  it,  he  had  been  watching  too. 

He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  a  man  of  medium  height, 
compactly  built,  and  well  past  the  half  century  mark. 
The  distinguishing  features  of  his  face  were  a  short  nose, 
a  heavy  thatch  of  brows,  a  square  jaw  which  showed  the 
need  of  the  offices  of  a  razor  and  his  lips  wore  a  short, 
square  mustache  somewhat  stained  by  nicotine. 

In  point  of  eagerness  the  manner  of  his  greeting  of  the 
newcomer  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  Peter's  first  impres- 
sion was  that  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  was  quite  able  to  look 
out  for  himself,  which  confirmed  the  impression  that  the 
inspection  to  which  Peter  had  been  subjected  was  nothing 
but  a  joke.  But  when  his  employer  began  speaking  rather 
jerkily,  Peter  noticed  that  his  hands  were  unsteady  and 
that  neither  the  muscles  of  his  face  nor  of  his  body  were 
under  complete  control.  Normally,  he  would  have  seemed 
much  as  Sheldon,  Senior,  had  described  him — a  hard-fisted 
man,  a  close  bargainer  who  had  won  his  way  to  his  great 
wealth  by  the  sheer  force  of  a  strong  personality.  There 
was  little  of  softness  in  his  face,  little  that  was  imaginative. 
56 


THE  JOB 


This  was  not  a  man  to  be  frightened  at  the  Unseen  or 
to  see  terrors  that  did  not  exist.  Otherwise,  to  Peter  he 
seemed  commonplace  to  the  last  degree,  of  Irish  extraction 
probably,  the  kind  of  person  one  meets  daily  on  Broad- 
way or  on  the  Strand.  In  a  fur  coat  he  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  banker;  in  tweeds,  for  a  small  tradesman ;  or  in 
his  shirt  as  Peter  now  saw  him,  the  wristbands  and  collar 
somewhat  soiled  from  perspiration,  for  a  laboring  man 
taking  his  rest  after  an  arduous  day.  In  other  words,  he 
was  very  much  what  his  clothes  would  make  of  him,  be- 
traying his  origins  in  a  rather  strident  voice  meant  per- 
haps to  conceal  the  true  state  of  his  mind. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Nichols.  Thought  you  were  never 
comin',"  he  jerked  out. 

"I  walked  most  of  the  way  from  Pickerel  River.  Some- 
thing went  wrong,  with  the  'Lizzie.'  " 

"Oh — er — 'Lizzie*.  The  flivver !  I  couldn't  send  my  own 
car.  I've  got  only  one  down  here  and  I  might  need  it." 

"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least — since  I'm  here." 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Nichols,"  went  on  McGuire  indicating  a 
chair.  "You've  been  well  recommended  by  Mr.  Sheldon. 
I  talked  to  him  yesterday  over  long  distance.  He  told  you 
what  I  wanted?" 

"Something.  Not  much,"  said  Peter  with  a  view  to  get- 
ting all  the  information  possible.  "You  wanted  a  forest- 
er  ?" 

"Er — er — yes,  that's  it.  A  forester."  And  then  he  went 
on  haltingly — "I've  got  about  twenty  thousand  acres  here 
— mostly  scrub  oak — pine  and  spruce.  I've  sold  off  a  lot 
to  the  Government.  A  mess  of  it  has  been  cut — there's 
been  a  lot  of  waste — and  the  fire  season  is  coming  around. 
That's  the  big  job — the  all-the-year  job.  You've  had 
experience?" 

"Yes — in  Russia.    I'm  a  trained  woodsman." 

"You're  a  good  all-round  man  ?" 
57 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Exactly  what ?"  began  Peter. 

"You  know  how  to  look  after  yourself — to  look  after 
other  men,  to  take  charge  of  a  considerable  number  of 
people  in  my  employ?" 

"Yes.    I'm  used  to  dealing  with  men." 

"It's  a  big  job,  Mr.  Nichols — a  ticklish  kind  of  a  job 
for  a  furriner — one  with  some — er — unusual  features — 
that  may  call  for — er — a  lot  of  tact.  And — er — cour- 
age" 

It  seemed  to  Peter  that  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  was  talk- 
ing almost  at  random,  that  the  general  topic  of  forestry 
was  less  near  his  heart  to-night  than  the  one  that  was  up- 
permost in  Peter's  mind,  the  mystery  that  surrounded 
his  employer  and  the  agencies  invoked  to  protect  him. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  were  loath  to  speak  of  them,  as  if  he 
were  holding  Peter  off  at  arm's  length,  so  to  say,  until 
he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  that  this  and  no  other 
man  was  the  one  he  wanted,  for  all  the  while  he  was 
examining  the  visitor  with  burning,  beady,  gray  eyes, 
as  though  trying  to  peer  into  his  mind. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  a  forester's  job,  no  matter  how  big 
it  is,  if  I  have  men  enough,"  said  Peter,  still  curious. 

"And  you're  a  pretty  good  man  in  a  pinch,  I  mean " 

he  put  in  jerkily,  "you're  not  easy  scared — don't  lose 
your  nerve." 

"I'll  take  my  chances  on  that,"  replied  Peter  calmly. 
"I'm  used  to  commanding  men,  in  emergencies — if  that's 
what  you  mean." 

"Yes.  That's  what  I  mean.  Er — you're  an  English- 
man, Mr.  Sheldon  says." 

"Er— yes,"  said  Peter,  "an  Englishman,"  for  this 
was  the  truth  now  more  than  ever  before,  and  then  re- 
peated the  story  he  had  told  in  New  York  about  his  work 
in  Russia.  While  Peter  was  talking,  McGuire  was  pac- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  with  short  nervous  strides, 
58 


THE  JOB 


nodding  his  head  in  understanding  from  time  to  time. 
When  Peter  paused  he  returned  to  his  chair. 

"You  British  are  a  pretty  steady  lot,"  said  McGuire 
at  last.  "I  think  you'll  do.  I  like  the  way  you  talk  and 
I  like  your  looks.  Younger  than  I'd  hoped  maybe,  but 
then  you're  strong — Mr.  Sheldon  says  you're  strong,  Mr. 
Nichols." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Peter,  his  curiosity  now  getting  the 
better  of  him.  "But  it  might  be  as  well,  Mr.  McGuire, 
if  you  let  me  know  just  what,  that  is  unusual,  is  to  be 
required  of  me.  I  assume  that  you  want  me  to  take 
command  of  the  men  policing  your  grounds — and  imme- 
diate property?" 

"Er — yes.  That  will  have  to  be  put  in  shape  at  once — 
at  once."  He  leaned  suddenly  forward  in  his  chair,  his 
hairy  hands  clutching  at  his  knees,  while  he  blurted  out 
with  a  kind  of  relieved  tension,  "No  one  must  come  near 
the  house  at  night.  No  one,  you  understand " 

"I  understand,  sir "  said  Peter,  waiting  patiently 

for  a  revelation. 

"There'll  be  no  excuse  if  any  one  gets  near  the  house 
without  my  permission,"  he  snarled.  And  then  almost 
sullenly  again — "You  understand?" 

"Perfectly.     That  should  not  be  difficult  to " 

"It  may  be  more  difficult  than  you  think,"  broke  in 
McGuire,  springing  to  his  feet  again,  and  jerking  out 
his  phrases  with  strange  fury. 

"Nothing  is  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Nothing,"  he 
raged.  Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment,  watching  McGuire 
who  had  paced  the  length  of  the  room  and  back. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  doesn't  it 
seem  to  you  that  both  I  and  the  man  under  me  could  do 
our  work  with  more  intelligence  if  we  knew  just  who 
or  what  is  to  be  guarded  against  ?"  Mr.  McGuire  stopped 
beside  him  as  though  transfixed  by  the  thought.  Then 
59 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


his  fingers  clutched  at  the  back  of  a  chair  to  which  he 
clung  for  a  moment  in  silence,  his  brows  beetling.  And 
when  he  spoke  all  the  breath  of  his  body  seemed  concen- 
trated in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"You  won't  know  that.  You  understand,  I  give  the 
orders.  You  obey  them.  I  am  not  a  man  who  answers 
questions.  Don't  ask  them." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  So  long  as  this  thing  you 
fear  is  human " 

"Human!  'A  ghost!  Who  said  I  was  afraid?  Shel- 
don? Let  him  think  it.  This  is  my  business.  There  are 
many  things  of  value  in  this  house,"  and  he  glanced  to- 
wards the  safe.  "I'm  using  the  right  of  any  man  to 
protect  what  belongs  to  him." 

"I  see,"  said  Peter. 

The  man's  tension  relaxed  as  he  realized  Peter's  cool- 
ness. 

"Call  it  a  fancy  if  you  like,  Mr.  Nichols "  he  said 

with  a  shrug.  "A  man  of  my  age  may  have  fancies 
when  he  can  afford  to  gratify  'em." 

"That's  your  affair,"  said  Peter  easily.  "I  take  it 
then  that  the  systematic  policing  of  the  grounds  is  the 
first  thing  I  am  to  consider." 

"Exactly.  The  systematic  policing  of  the  grounds — 
the  dividing  of  your  men  into  shifts  for  day  and  night 
work — more  at  night  than  in  the  day.  Three  more  men 
come  to-morrow.  They  will  all  look  to  you  for  orders." 

"And  who  is  in  charge  now?" 

*'A  man  named  Wells — a  native — the  foreman  from 
one  of  the  sawmills — but  he — er — well,  Mr.  Nichols — 
I'm  not  satisfied.  That's  why  I  wanted  a  man  from  out- 
side." 

"I  understand.  And  will  you  give  the  necessary  or- 
ders to  him?" 

"Wells  was  up  here  to-day,  I  told  him." 
60 


THE  JOB 


"How  many  men  are  on  guard  here  at  the  house?" 

"Ten  and  with  the  three  coming — that  makes  thir- 
teen  "  McGuire  halted — "thirteen — but  you  make  the 

fourteenth,"  he  added. 

Peter  nodded.  "And  you  wish  me  to  take  charge  at 
once?" 

"At  once.  To-night.  To-morrow  you  can  look  over 
the  ground  more  carefully.  You'll  sleep  in  the  old  play- 
house— the  log  cabin — down  by  the  creek.  They'll  show 
you.  It's  connected  with  this  house  by  'phone.  Ill 
talk  to  you  again  to-morrow;  you'd  better  go  down  and 
get  something  to  eat." 

McGuire  went  to  the  door  and  called  out  "Tillie!" 

And  as  a  faint  reply  was  heard,  "Get  Mr.  Nichols  some 
supper." 

Peter  rose  and  offered  his  hand. 

"I'll  try  to  justify  your  faith  in  me,  sir.  Much 
obliged." 

"Good-night." 

Peter  went  down  the  stairs  with  mingled  feelings.  If 
the  words  of  Beth  Cameron  had  created  in  his  mind  a  no- 
tion that  the  mystery  surrounding  Black  Rock  was  super- 
natural in  character,  the  interview  with  Jonathan  K. 
McGuire  had  dispelled  it.  That  McGuire  was  a  very  much 
frightened  man  was  certain,  but  it  seemed  equally  certain 
to  Peter  that  what  he  feared  was  no  ghost  or  banshee 
but  the  imminence  of  some  human  attack  upon  his  person 
or  possessions.  Here  was  a  practical  man,  who  bore  in 
every  feature  of  his  strongly-marked  face  the  tokens  of 
a  successful  struggle  in  a  hard  career,  the  beginnings  of 
which  could 'not  have  been  any  too  fortunate.  A  west- 
erner whose  broad  hands  and  twisted  fingers  spoke  elo- 
quently of  manual  labor,  a  man  who  still  possessed  to  all 
appearances  considerable  physical  strength — a  prey  to 
61 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


the  fear  of  some  night  danger  which  was  too  ominous 
even  to  be  talked  about. 

It  was  the  quality  of  his  terror  that  was  disturbing. 
Peter  was  well  acquainted  with  the  physical  aspects  of 
fear — that  is  the  fear  of  violence  and  death.  That  kind 
of  fear  made  men  restless  and  nervous,  or  silent  and  pre- 
occupied; or  like  liquor  it  accentuated  their  weaknesses 
of  fiber  in  sullenness  or  bravado.  But  it  did  not  make 
them  furtive.  He  could  not  believe  that  it  was  the  mere 
danger  of  death  or  physical  violence  that  obsessed  his 
employer.  That  sort  of  danger  perhaps  there  might  be, 
but  the  fear  that  he  had  seen  in  McGuire's  fanatical 
gray  eyes  was  born  of  something  more  than  these.  What- 
ever it  was  that  McGuire  feared,  it  reached  further  within 
— a  threat  which  would  destroy  not  his  body  alone,  but 
something  more  vital  even  than  that — the  very  spirit  that 
lived  within  him. 

Of  his  career,  Peter  knew  nothing  more  than  Sheldon, 
Senior,  had  told  him — a  successful  man  who  told  nothing 
of  his  business  except  to  the  Treasury  Department,  a 
silent  man,  with  a  passion  for  making  money.  What  could 
he  fear?  Whom?  What  specter  out  of  the  past  could 
conjure  up  the  visions  he  had  seen  dancing  between  Mc- 
Guire's eyes  and  his  own? 

These  questions  it  seemed  were  not  to  be  answered  and 
Peter,  as  he  sat  down  at  the  supper  table,  put  them  reso- 
lutely from  his  mind  and  addressed  himself  to  the  excellent 
meal  provided  by  the  housekeeper.  For  the  present,  at 
least,  fortune  smiled  upon  him.  The  terrors  of  his  em- 
ployer could  not  long  prevail  against  the  healthy  appetite 
of  six-and-twenty. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  Peter  discovered  that  the 

atmosphere  of  the  room  upstairs  pervaded  the  dining  room, 

library  and  halls.     There  were  a  cook  and  housemaid  he 

discovered,  neither  of   them  visible.      The  housekeeper, 

62 


THE  JOB 


if  attentive,  was  silent,  and  the  man  who  had  opened  the 
front  door,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  general  factotum, 
as  well  as  personal  bodyguard  to  Mr.  McGuire,  crept 
furtively  about  the  house  in  an  unquiet  manner  which 
would  have  been  disturbing  to  the  digestion  of  one  less 
timorous  than  Peter. 

Before  the  meal  was  finished  this  man  came  into  the 
room  and  laid  a  police  whistle,  a  large  new  revolver  and 
a  box  of  cartridges  beside  Peter's  dish  of  strawberries. 

"These  are  for  you,  sir,"  he  whispered  sepulchrally. 
"Mr.  McGuire  asked  me  to  give  them  to  you — for  to- 
night." 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter,  "and  you " 

"I'm  Stryker,  sir,  Mr.  McGuire's  valet." 

"Oh!" 

Peter's  accent  of  surprise  came  from  his  inability  to 
reconcile  Stryker  with  the  soiled  shirt  and  the  three  days' 
growth  of  beard  on  the  man  upstairs,  which  more  than 
ever  testified  to  the  disorder  of  his  mental  condition. 

And  as  Stryker  went  out  and  his  footsteps  were  heard 
no  more,  the  housekeeper  emerged  cautiously  from  the 
pantry. 

"Is  everything  all  right,  Mr.  Nichols?"  she  asked  in  a 
stage  whisper. 

"Right  as  rain.  Delicious!  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you." 

"I  mean — er — there  ain't  anythin'  else  ye'd  like?" 

"Nothing,  thanks,"  said  Peter,  taking  up  the  revolver 
and  breaking  it.  He  had  cut  the  cover  of  the  cartridge 
box  and  had  slipped  a  cartridge  into  the  weapon  when 
he  heard  the  voice  of  the  woman  at  his  ear. 

"D'ye  think  there's  any  danger,  sir?"  she  whispered, 
while  she  nervously  eyed  the  weapon. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Not  to  you,  I'd  say,"  he 
muttered,  still  putting  the  cartridges  in  the  pistol.  As 
63 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


an  ex-military  man,  he  was  taking  great  delight  in  the 
perfect  mechanism  of  his  new  weapon. 

"What  is  it ?  I  mean,  d'ye  think ,"  she  stam- 
mered, "did  Mr.  McGuire  say — just  what  it  is  he's  afraid 
of?" 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "he  didn't."  And  then  with  a  grin, 
"Do  you  know?" 

"No,  sir.  I  wish  t'God  I  did.  Then  there'd  be  some- 
thin*  to  go  by." 

"I'm  afraid'  I  can't  help  you,  Mrs. " 

"Tillie  Bergen.  I've  been  housekeeper  here  since  the 
new  wing  was  put  on ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Peter,  pausing  over  the  last  cartridge 
as  the  thought  came  to  him.  "Then  you  must  be  Beth 
Cameron's  aunt?" 

"Beth?"  The  woman's  sober  face  wreathed  in  a  lovely 
smile.  "D'ye  know  Beth?" 

"Since  this  afternoon.     She  showed  me  the  way." 

"Oh.     Poor  Beth." 

"Poor!" 

"Oh,  we're  all  poor,  Mr.  Nichols.  But  Beth  she's— 
different  from  the  rest  of  us  somehow." 

"Yes,  she  is  different,"  admitted  Peter  frankly. 

Mrs.  Bergen  sighed  deeply.  "Ye  don't  know  how  dif- 
ferent. And  now  that — all  this  trouble  has  come,  I  can't 
get  home  nights  to  her.  And  she  can't  come  to  see  me 
without  permission.  How  long  d'ye  think  it  will  last, 
sir?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter,  slipping  the  revolver  and 
cartridges  into  his  pockets.  And  then  gallantly,  "If  I 
can  offer  you  my  services,  I'd  be  glad  to  take  you  home 
at  night " 

"It's  against  orders.  And  I  wouldn't  dare,  Mr.  Nichols. 
As  it  is  I've  got  about  as  much  as  I  can  stand.  If  it 
64 


THE  JOB 


wasn't  for  the  money  I  wouldn't  be  stayin'  in  the  house 
another  hour." 

"Perhaps  things  won't  be  so  bad  after  a  time.  If  any- 
thing is  going  to  happen,  it  ought  to  be  pretty  soon." 

She  regarded  him  wistfully  as  he  moved  toward  the 
door.  "An*  ye'll  tell  me,  sir,  if  anything  out  o'  the  way 
happens." 

"I  hope  nothing  is  going  to  happen,  Mrs.  Bergen," 
said  Peter  cheerfully. 

Stryker  appeared  mysteriously  from  the  darkness  as 
Peter  went  out  into  the  hall. 

"The  upstairs  girl  made  up  your  bed  down  at  the 
cabin,  sir.  The  chauffeur  took  your  bag  over.  You'll 
need  these  matches.  If  you'll  wait,  sir,  I'll  call  Mr. 
Wells." 

Peter  wondered  at  the  man  in  this  most  unconventional 
household,  for  Stryker,  with  all  the  prescience  of  a  well- 
trained  servant,  had  already  decided  that  Peter  belonged 
to  a  class  accustomed  to  being  waited  on.  Going  to  the 
door  he  blew  one  short  blast  on  a  police  whistle,  like 
Peter's,  which  he  brought  forth  from  his  pocket. 

"That  will  bring  him,  sir,"  he  said.  "If  you'll  go 
out  on  the  portico,  he'll  join  you  in  a  moment." 

Peter  obeyed.  The  door  was  closed  and  fastened  be- 
hind him  and  almost  before  he  had  taken  his  lungs  full 
of  the  clean  night  air  (for  the  house  had  been  hot  and 
stuffy),  a  shadow  came  slouching  across  the  lawn  in  the 
moonlight.  Peter  joined  the  man  at  once  and  they 
walked  around  the  house,  while  Peter  questioned  him  as 
to  the  number  of  men  and  their  disposition  about  the 
place.  There  were  six,  he  found,  including  Wells,  with  six 
more  to  sleep  in  the  stable,  which  was  also  used  as  a 
guardhouse.  Peter  made  the  rounds  of  the  sentries. 
None  of  them  seemed  to  be  taking  the  matter  any  too 
seriously  and  one  at  least  was  sound  asleep  beneath  some 
65 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


bushes.  Peter  foresaw  difficulties.  Under  the  leadership 
of  Shad  Wells  the  strategic  points  were  not  covered,  and, 
had  he  wished,  he  could  have  found  his  way,  by  using  the 
cover  of  shadow  and  shrubbery,  to  the  portico  without 
being  observed.  He  pointed  this  out  to  Wells  who,  from 
a  supercilious  attitude,  changed  to  one  of  defiance. 

"You  seem  to  think  you  know  a  lot,  Mister?"  he  said. 
"I'd  like  to  see  ye  try  it." 

Peter  laughed. 

"Very  well.  Take  your  posts  and  keep  strict  watch, 
but  don't  move.  If  I  don't  walk  across  the  lawn  from 
the  house  in  half  an  hour  I'll  give  you  ten  dollars.  In 
return  you  can  take  a  shot  if  you  see  me." 

He  thought  the  men  needed  the  object  lesson.  Peter 
was  an  excellent  "point."  He  disappeared  into  the  woods 
behind  him  and  making  his  way  cautiously  out,  found  a 
road,  doubling  to  the  other  side  of  the  garage  along  which 
he  went  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  crawling  from  shrub 
to  shrub  in  the  shadows  reached  the  portico  without  de- 
tection. Here  he  lighted  a  fag  and  quietly  strolled  down 
to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  Shad  Wells,  to  whom  he 
offered  a  cigarette  by  way  of  consolation.  Wells  took  it 
grudgingly.  But  he  took  it,  which  was  one  point  gained. 

"Right  smart,  aren't  ye?"   said  Shad. 

"No,"  said  Peter  coolly.  "Anybody  could  have  done 
it, — in  three  ways.  The  other  two  ways  are  through  the 
pine  grove  to  the  left  and  from  the  big  sycamore  by  the 
stream." 

"And  how  do  you  know  all  that?" 

"I  was  in  the  Army,"  said  Peter.  "It's  a  business 
like  anything  else." 

And  he  pointed  out  briefly  where  the  five  men  should 
be  stationed  and  why,  and  Shad,  somewhat  mollified  by 
the  cigarette,  shrugged  and  agreed. 
66 


THE  JOB 


"We'll  do  sentry  duty  in  the  regular  way,"  went  on 
Peter  cheerfully,  "with  a  corporal  of  the  guard  and  a 
countersign.  I'll  explain  in  detail  to-morrow."  And  then 
to  Shad,  "I'll  take  command  until  midnight,  when  you'll 
go  on  with  the  other  shift  until  four.  I'll  make  it  clear 
to  the  other  men.  The  countersign  is  the  word  'Purple.' 
You'd  better  go  and  turn  in.  I'll  call  you  at  twelve." 

Peter  watched  the  figure  of  the  woodsman  go  ambling 
across  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the  garage  and  smiled. 
He  also  marked  the  vertical  line  of  light  which  showed  at  a 
window  on  the  second  floor  where  another  kept  watch. 
The  man  called  Jesse,  the  one  who  had  been  asleep  be- 
neath the  bushes,  and  who,  fully  awake,  had  watched 
Peter's  exhibition  of  scouting,  now  turned  to  Peter  with 
a  laugh. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Mister.  S'long's  we're  paid. 
But  I'd  like  to  know  just  what  this  'ere  thing  is  the  ol' 
man's  skeered  of." 

"You  know  as  much  as  I  do.  It  will  probably  have  two 
legs,  two  hands  and  a  face  and  carry  a  gun.  You'd  bet- 
ter be  sure  you're  not  asleep  when  it  comes.  But  if  you 
care  to  know  what  I  think,  you  can  be  pretty  sure  that 
it's  coming — and  before  very  long." 

"To-night?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Have  a  cigarette?  You  cover  from 
the  road  to  the  big  cedar  tree ;  and  keep  your  eyes  open — 
especially  in  the  shadows — and  don't  let  anybody  get  you 
in  the  back." 

And  so  making  the  rounds,  instilling  in  their  minds  a 
sense  of  real  emergency,  Peter  gave  the  men  their  new 
sentry  posts  and  made  friends.  He  had  decided  to  stay 
up  all  night,  but  at  twelve  he  called  Shad  Wells  and  went 
down  to  look  over  his  cabin  which  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away  from  the  house  near  Cedar  Creek  (or  "Crick"  in 
67 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


the  vernacular).  The  key  was  in  the  cabin  door  so  he 
unlocked  it  and  went  in,  and  after  striking  a  match  found 
a  kerosene  lamp  which  he  lighted  and  then  looked  about 
him. 

The  building  had  only  one  room  but  it  was  of  large 
dimensions  and  contained  a  wooden  bed  with  four  posts, 
evidently  some  one's  heirloom,  a  bureau,  washstand,  two 
tables  and  an  easy  chair  or  two.  Behind  the  bed  was  a 
miscellaneous  lot  of  rubbish,  including  a  crib,  a  rocking 
horse,  a  velocipede,  beside  some  smaller  toys.  Whom  had 
these  things  belonged  to?  A  grandson  of  McGuire's? 
And  was  the  daughter  of  McGuire  like  her  father,  un- 
lovely, soiled  and  terror-stricken?  His  desultory  mental 
queries  suddenly  stopped  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  far 
corner  of  the  room,  for  there,  covered  with  an  old  shawl, 
he  made  out  the  lines  of  a  piano.  He  opened  the  keyboard 
and  struck  a  chord.  It  wasn't  so  bad — a  little  tuning — 
he  could  do  it  himself.  .  .  . 

So  this  was  his  new  home!  He  had  not  yet  had  the 
time  or  the  opportunity  to  learn  what  new  difficulties  were 
to  face  him  on  the  morrow,  but  the  personal  affairs  of  his 
employer  had  piqued  his  interest  and  for  the  present  he 
had  done  everything  possible  to  insure  his  safety  for  the 
night.  To-morrow  perhaps  he  would  learn  something 
more  about  the  causes  of  this  situation.  He  would  have 
an  opportunity  too  to  look  over  the  property  and  make 
a  report  as  to  its  possibilities.  To  a  man  inured  as  Peter 
was  to  disappointments,  what  he  had  found  was  good.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  fit  himself  soldierlike  into  his  new 
situation  and  he  had  to  admit  now  that  he  liked  the  pros- 
pect. As  though  to  compensate  for  past  mischief,  Fate 
had  provided  him  with  the  one  employment  in  the  new 
land  for  which  he  was  best  suited  by  training  and  in- 
clination. It  was  the  one  "job"  in  which,  if  he  were  per- 
68 


THE  JOB 


mitted  a  fair  amount  of  freedom  of  action  and  initiative, 
he  was  sure  that  he  could  "make  good."  The  trees  he 
could  see  were  not  the  stately  pines  of  Zukovo,  but  they 
were  pines,  and  the  breeze  which  floated  in  to  him  through 
the  cabin  door  was  laden  with  familiar  odors. 

The  bed  looked  inviting,  but  he  resolutely  turned  his 
back  to  it  and  unpacked  his  suitcase,  taking  off  his  tailor- 
made  clothing  and  putting  on  the  flannel  shirt,  corduroy 
trousers  and  heavy  laced  boots,  all  of  which  he  had  bought 
before  leaving  New  York.  Then  he  went  to  the  doorway 
and  stood  looking  out  into  the  night. 

The  moonbeams  had  laid  a  patine  of  silver  upon  the 
floor  of  the  small  clearing  before  the  door,  and  played 
softly  among  the  shadows.  So  silent  was  the  night  that 
minute  distant  sounds  were  clearly  audible — the  stream 
seemed  to  be  tinkling  just  at  his  elbow,  while  much  farther 
away  there  was  a  low  murmur  of  falling  water  at  the 
tumbling  dam,  mingling  with  the  sighs  of  vagrant  airs 
among  the  crowns  of  the  trees,  the  rustle  and  creak  of  dry 
branches,  the  whispering  of  leaf  to  leaf.  Wakeful  birds 
deceived  by  the  moon  piped  softly  and  were  silent.  An 
owl  called.  And  then  for  the  briefest  moment,  except  for 
the  stream,  utter  silence. 

Peter  strode  forth,  bathed  himself  in  the  moonlight  and 
drank  deep  of  the  airs  of  the  forest.  America!  He  had 
chosen!  Her  youth  called  to  his.  He  wanted  to  forget 
everything  that  had  gone  before,  the  horrors  through 
which  he  had  passed,  both  physical  and  spiritual, — the 
dying  struggles  of  the  senile  nation,  born  in  intolerance, 
grown  in  ignorance  and  stupidity  which,  with  a  mad 
gesture,  had  cast  him  forth  with  a  curse.  He  had  doffed 
the  empty  prerogatives  of  blood  and  station  and  left  them 
in  the  mire  and  blood.  The  soul  of  Russia  was  dead  and 
he  had  thought  that  his  own  had  died  with  hers,  but  from 
the  dead  thing  a  new  soul  might  germinate  as  it  had  now 
69 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


germinated  in  him.     He  had  been  born  again.     Novaya 
Jezn!    The  New  Life!     He  had  found  it. 

He  listened  intently  as  though  for  its  heartbeats,  his 
face  turned  up  toward  the  silent  pines.  For  a  long  while 
he  stood  so  and  then  went  indoors  and  sat  at  the  old  piano 
playing  softly. 


CHAPTER  V 

NEW  ELEMENTS 

SOME  of  the  men  on  guard  in  the  middle  watch  re- 
ported that  they  had  heard  what  seemed  to  be  the 
sounds  of  music  very  far  away  in  the  woods  and  were 
disturbed  at  the  trick  their  ears  had  played  upon  them. 
But  Peter  didn't  tell  them  the  truth.  If  listening  for 
the  notes  of  a  piano  would  keep  them  awake,  listen  they 
should.  He  slept  until  noon  and  then  went  to  the  house 
for  orders. 

Morning  seemed  to  make  a  difference  in  the  point  of 
view.  If  the  moon  had  made  the  night  lovely,  the  sun 
brought  with  it  the  promise  of  every  good  thing.  The 
walk  through  the  woods  to  Black  Rock  House  was  a  joy, 
very  slightly  alleviated  by  the  poor  condition  of  the 
trees  under  which  Peter  passed.  It  was  primeval  forest 
even  here,  with  valuable  trees  stunted  and  poor  ones 
vastly  overgrown  according  to  nature's  law  which  pro- 
vides for  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  This  was  the  law  too, 
which  was  to  be  applied  to  Peter.  Would  he  grow  straight 
and  true  in  this  foreign  soil  or  gnarled  and  misshapen 
like  the  cedars  and  the  maples  that  he  saw?  Yes.  He 
would  grow  and  straight  .  .  .  straight. 

Optimism  seemed  to  be  the  order  of  the  new  day.  At 
the  house  he  found  that  his  employer  had  put  on  a  clean 
shirt  and  was  freshly  shaven.  The  windows  of  the  room 
were  opened  wide  to  the  sunlight  which  streamed  into  the 
room,  revealing  its  darkest  corners.  McGuire  himself 
seemed  to  have  responded  to  the  effulgence  of  the  sun  and 
71 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


the  balmy  air  which  swept  across  his  table.  His  man- 
ner was  now  calm,  his  voice  more  measured. 

When  Peter  came  into  the  room,  Mr.  McGuire  closed 
the  heavy  doors  of  the  steel  safe  carefully  and  turned 
to  greet  him. 

"Oh,  glad  to  see  you,  Nichols,"  he  said  more  cheerfully. 
"A  quiet  night,  I  understand." 

"Yes,"  laughed  Nichols,  "except  for  the  man  who  got 
through  the  guards  and  smoked  a  cigarette  on  your 
portico." 

"What !"  gasped  McGuire. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  sir.  It  was  only  myself.  I  wanted 
to  show  Shad  Wells  the  defects  of  his  police  system." 

"Oh !  Ah !  Ha,  ha,  yes,  of  course.  Very  good.  And 
you  weren't  shot  at?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir — though  I'd  given  them  leave  to  pot  me  if 
they  could.  But  I  think  you're  adequately  protected 
now." 

"Good,"  said  McGuire.  "Have  a  cigar.  I'm  glad 
you've  come.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you." 

And  when  they  had  lighted  their  cigars,  "It's  about  this 
very  guard.  I — I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  keep  your  men 
under  cover  at  least  in  the  daytime." 

"Under  cover?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  went  on  McGuire  in  some  hesitation, 
"my  daughter  (he  called  it  darter)  Peggy  is  motoring 
down  from  New  York  to-day.  I  don't  want  her,  but  she's 
coming.  I  couldn't  stop  her.  She  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  this — er — this  guarding  the  house.  And  I 
don't  want  her  to  know.  She  mustn't  know.  She'd  ask 
questions.  I  don't  want  questions  asked.  I'll  get  her 
away  as  soon  as  I  can,  but  she  mustn't  be  put  into  any 
danger." 

"I  see,"  said  Peter  examining  the  ash  of  his  cigar. 
72 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


"You  don't  want  her  to  know  anything  about  the  impend- 
ing attempts  upon  jour  life  and  property." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  McGuire  impatiently.  "I  don't 
want  her  to  find  out.  Er — she  couldn't  understand.  You 
know  women,  Nichols.  They  talk  too  much."  He  paused 
— "It's — er — necessary  that  none  of  her  friends  in  New 
York  or  mine  should  know  of — er — any  danger  that 
threatens  me.  And  of  course — er — any  danger  that 
threatens  me  would — in  a  way — threaten  her.  You  see?" 

"I  think  so." 

"I've  put  all  weapons  under  cover.  I  don't  want  her 
to  see  'em.  So  when  she  comes — which  may  be  at  any 
moment — nothing  must  be  said  about  the  men  outside  and 
what  they're  there  for.  In  the  daytime  they  must  be  given 
something  to  do  about  the  place — trimming  the  lawns, 
pruning  trees  or  weeding  the  driveway.  Pay  'em  what 
they  ask,  but  don't  let  any  of  'em  go  away.  You'll  ex- 
plain this  to  the  new  men.  As  for  yourself — er — of  course 
you're  my  new  superintendent  and  forester." 

McGuire  got  up  and  paced  the  #oor  slowly  looking  at 
Peter  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

"I  like  you,  Nichols.  We'll  get  along.  You've  got 
courage  and  intelligence — and  of  course  anybody  can 
see  you're  a  gentleman.  You'll  keep  on  taking  your  meals 
in  the  house " 

"If  you'd  like  me  to  go  elsewhere " 

"No.  I  see  no  reason  why  Peggy  shouldn't  like  you. 
I  hope  she  will.  But  she's  very  headstrong,  has  been 
since  a  kid.  I  suppose  I  humor  her  a  bit — who  wouldn't? 
I  lost  my  oldest  girl  and  her  boy  with  the  'flu.'  Her 
husband's  still  in  France.  And  Peggy's  got  a  will  of  her 
own,  Peg  has,"  he  finished  in  a  kind  of  admiring  abstrac- 
tion. "Got  a  society  bee  in  her  bonnet.  Wants  to  go 
with  all  the  swells.  I'm  backin'  her,  Nichols.  She'll  do 
it  too  before  she's  through,"  he  finished  proudly. 
73 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  Peter  soberly,  though 
very  much  amused  at  his  employer's  ingenuousness.  Here 
then,  was  the  weak  spot  in  the  armor  of  this  relentless  mil- 
lionaire— his  daughter.  The  older  one  and  her  child  were 
dead.  That  accounted  for  the  toys  in  the  cabin.  Peggy 
sounded  interesting — if  nothing  else,  for  her  vitality. 

"I'd  better  see  about  this  at  once,  then.  If  she  should 
come " 

Peter  rose  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room  when  there 
was  a  sound  of  an  automobile  horn  and  the  sudden  roar  of 
an  exhaust  outside.  He  followed  McGuire  to  the  window 
and  saw  a  low  red  runabout  containing  a  girl  and  a  male 
companion  emerging  from  the  trees.  A  man  in  the  road 
was  holding  up  his  hands  in  signal  for  the  machine  to  stop 
and  had  barely  time  to  leap  aside  to  avoid  being  run  down. 
The  car  roared  up  to  the  portico,  the  breathless  man,  who 
was  Shad  Wells,  pursuing.  Peter  was  glad  that  he  had 
had  the  good  sense  not  to  shoot.  He  turned  to  his  em- 
ployer, prepared  for  either  anger  or  dismay  and  found 
that  McGuire  was  merely  grinning  and  chuckling  softly 
as  though  to  himself. 

"Just  like  her!"  he  muttered,  "some  kid,  that!" 

Meanwhile  Shad  Wells,  making  a  bad  race  of  it  was 
only  halfway  up  the  drive,  when  at  a  signal  and  shout 
from  McGuire,  he  stopped  running,  stared,  spat  and  re- 
turned to  his  post. 

There  was  a  commotion  downstairs,  the  shooting  of 
bolts,  the  sounds  of  voices  and  presently  the  quick  patter 
of  feminine  footsteps  which  McGuire,  now  completely 
oblivious  of  Peter,  went  to  meet. 

"Well,  daughter!" 

"Hello,  Pop!" 

Peter  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  face  and  straggling  brown 
hair,  quickly  engulfed  in  McGuire's  arms. 

"What  on  earth "  began  McGuire. 

74 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


"Thought  we'd  give  you  a  little  touch  of  high  life,  Pop. 
It  was  so  hot  in  town.  And  the  hotel's  full  of  a  conven- 
tion of  rough  necks.  I  brought  Freddy  with  me  and 
Mildred  and  Jack  are  in  the  other  car.  We  thought  the 
rest  might  do  us  good." 

The  voice  was  nasal  and  pitched  high,  as  though  she 
were  trying  to  make  herself  audible  in  a  crowd.  Peter  was 
ready  to  revise  his  estimate  that  her  face  was  pretty,  for 
to  him  no  woman  was  more  beautiful  than  her  own  voice. 

"But  you  can't  stay  here,  Peg,"  went  on  McGuire,  "not 
more  than  over  night — with  all  these  people.  I'm  very 
busy " 

"H-m.  We'll  see  about  that.  I  never  saw  the  woods 
look  prettier.  We  came  by  Lakewood  and  Brown's  Mills 
and— Why  who ?" 

As  she  sidled  into  the  room  she  suddenly  espied  Peter 
who  was  still  standing  by  the  window. 

"Who ?  Why — Oh,  yes,  this  is  my  new  superin- 
tendent and  forester.  Meet  my  daughter, — Mr.  Nichols." 

Peter  bowed  and  expressed  pleasure.  Miss  McGuire 
swept  him  with  a  quick  glance  that  took  in  his  flannel 
shirt,  corduroy  breeches  and  rough  boots,  nodded  pertly 
and  turned  away. 

Peter  smiled.  Like  Beth  Cameron  this  girl  was  very 
particular  in  choosing  her  acquaintances. 

"I  nearly  killed  a  guy  in  the  driveway,"  she  went  on, 
"who  was  he,  Pop?" 

"Er — one  of  the  gardeners.  I've  told  them  to  keep 
people  off  the  place." 

"Well.  I'd  like  to  see  him  keep  me  off !  I  suppose  he'll 
be  trying  to  hold  up  Mildred  and  Jack " 

She  walked  to  the  window  passing  close  beside  Peter, 
paying  as  little  attention  to  his  presence  as  if  he  had  been 
an  article  of  furniture. 

75 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Can't  you  get  this  man  to  go  down,"  she  said  indicat- 
ing Peter,  "and  tell  them  it's  all  right?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter  politely.  "I'll  go  at  once. 
And  I'd  like  to  arrange  to  look  over  part  of  the  estate 
with  Wells,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  added. 

"All  right,  Nichols,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  frown. 
And  then  significantly — "But  remember  what  I've  told 
you.  Make  careful  arrangements  before  you  go." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Peter  went '  down  the  stairs,  amused  at  his  dismissal. 
On  the  veranda  he  found  a  young  man  sitting  on  some 
suitcases  smoking  a  cigarette.  This  was  Freddy,  of 
course.  He  afterwards  learned  that  his  last  name  was 
Mordaunt,  that  he  was  a  part  of  Peggy's  ambitions,  and 
that  he  had  been  invalided  home  from  a  camp  and  dis- 
charged from  the  military  service.  As  Freddy  turned, 
Peter  bowed  politely  and  passed  on.  Having  catalogued 
him  by  his  clothing,  Freddy  like  Peggy  had  turned  away, 
smoking  his  cigarette. 

Peter  thought  that  some  Americans  were  born  with  bad 
manners,  some  achieved  bad  manners,  and  others  had  bad 
manners  thrust  upon  them.  Impoliteness  was  nothing  new 
to  him,  since  he  had  been  in  America.  It  was  indigenous. 
Personally,  he  didn't  mind  what  sort  of  people  he  met, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  aware  that  a  new  element  had  come 
to  Black  Rock  which  was  to  make  disquietude  for  Jona- 
than K.  McGuire  and  difficulty  for  himself.  And  yet  too 
there  was  a  modicum  of  safety,  perhaps,  in  the  presence 
of  these  new  arrivals,  for  it  had  been  clear  from  his  em- 
ployer's demeanor  that  the  terrors  of  the  night  had 
passed  with  the  coming  of  the  day. 

He  commented  on  this  to  Shad  Wells,  who  informed 
him  that  night  was  always  the  old  man's  bad  time. 

"Seems  sort  o'  like  he's  skeered  o*  the  dark.     Tain't 
nateral.     'Fraid  o'  ghosts,  they  say,"  he  laughed. 
76 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


"Well,"  said  Peter,  "we've  got  our  orders.  And  the 
thing  he  fears  isn't  a  ghost.  It's  human.'* 

"Sure?" 

"Yes.  And  since  he's  more  afraid  after  dark  he  has 
probably  had  his  warning.  But  we're  not  to  take  any 
chances." 

Having  given  his  new  orders  to  Jesse,  who  was  to  be 
in  charge  during  their  absence,  they  struck  into  the  woods 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  Creek  for  the  appraisal  of  a 
part  of  the  strip  known  as  the  "Upper  Reserve."  From  an 
attitude  of  suspicion  and  sneering  contempt  Peter's  com- 
panion had  changed  to  one  of  indifference.  The  unfail- 
ing good  humor  of  the  new  superintendent  had  done  some- 
thing to  prepare  the  ground  for  an  endurable  relation 
between  them.  Like  Beth  Cameron  Shad  had  sneered  at 
the  word  "forester."  He  was  the  average  lumberman, 
only  interested  in  the  cutting  down  of  trees  for  the  mar- 
ket— the  commercial  aspect  of  the  business — heedless  of 
the  future,  indifferent  to  the  dangers  of  deforestation. 
Peter  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  forestry  actually  means 
using  the  forest  as  the  farmer  uses  his  land,  cutting  out 
the  mature  and  overripe  trees  and  giving  the  seedlings 
beneath  more  light  that  they  may  furnish  the  succeeding 
crop  of  timber.  He  knew  that  the  man  was  intelligent 
enough,  and  explained  as  well  as  he  could  from  such  sta- 
tistics as  he  could  recall  how  soon  the  natural  resources 
of  the  country  would  be  exhausted  under  the  existing  in- 
difference. 

"Quite  a  bit  of  wood  here,  Mister — enough  for  my  job," 
said  Shad. 

But  after  a  while  Peter  began  to  make  him  understand 
and  showed  him  what  trees  should  be  marked  for  cutting 
and  why.  They  came  to  a  burned  patch  of  at  least  a 
hundred  acres. 

77 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Is  there  any  organized  system  for  fighting  these  fires  ?" 
Peter  asked. 

"System !  Well,  when  there's  a  fire  we  go  and  try  to 
put  it  out "  laughed  Wells. 

"How  do  the  fires  start?" 

"Campers — hunters  mos'ly — in  the  deer  season.  Rail- 
roads sometimes — at  the  upper  end." 

"And  you  keep  no  watch  for  smoke?" 

"Where  would  we  watch  from?" 

"Towers.  'They  ought  to  be  built — with  telephone  con- 
nection to  headquarters." 

"D'ye  think  the  old  man  will  stand  for  that?" 

"He  ought  to.     It's  insurance." 

«0h!" 

"It  looks  to  me,  Wells,"  said  Peter  after  a  pause,  "that 
a  good  'crown'  fire  and  a  high  gale,  would  turn  all  this 
country  to  cinders — like  this." 

"It's  never  happened  yet." 

"It  may  happen.  Then  good-by  to  your  jobs — and  to 
Black  Rock  too  perhaps." 

"I  guess  Black  Rock  can  stand  it,  if  the  old  man  can." 

They  walked  around  the  charred  clearing  and  mounted 
a  high  sand  dune,  from  which  they  could  see  over  a  wide 
stretch  of  country.  With  a  high  wooden  platform  here 
the  whole  of  the  Upper  Reserve  could  be  watched.  They 
sat  for  a  while  among  the  sandwort  and  smoked,  while 
Peter  described  the  work  in  the  German  forests  that  he 
had  observed  before  the  war.  Shad  had  now  reached  the 
point  of  listening  and  asking  questions  as  the  thought  was 
more  and  more  borne  into  his  mind  that  this  new  superin- 
tendent was  not  merely  talking  for  talk's  sake,  but  be- 
cause he  knew  more  about  the  woods  than  any  man  the 
native  had  ever  talked  with,  and  wanted  Shad  to  know 
too.  For  Peter  had  an  answer  to  all  of  his  questions,  and 
Shad,  though  envious  of  Peter's  grammar — for  he  had 
78 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


reached  an  age  to  appreciate  it — was  secretly  scornful  of 
Peter's  white  hands  and  carefully  tied  black  cravat. 

This  dune  was  at  the  end  of  the  first  day's  "cruise" 
and  Shad  had  risen  preparatory  to  returning  toward 
Black  Rock  when  they  both  heard  a  sound, — away  off  to 
their  right,  borne  down  to  them  clearly  on  the  breeze — 
the  voice  of  a  girl  singing. 

"Beth,"  said  Shad  with  a  kindling  eye.  And  then  care- 
lessly spat,  to  conceal  his  emotions. 

"What  on  earth  can  she  be  doing  in  here?"  asked  Peter. 

"Only  half  a  mile  from  the  road.  It's  the  short  cut 
from  Gaskill's." 

"I  see,"  from  Peter. 

"Do  you  reckon  you  can  find  your  way  back  alone, 
Nichols?"  said  Shad,  spitting  again. 

Peter  grinned.     "I  reckon  I  can  try,"  he  said. 

Shad  pointed  with  his  long  arm  in  the  general  direc- 
tion of  Heaven.  "That  way !"  he  muttered  and  went  into 
the  scrub  oak  with  indecent  haste. 

Peter  sat  looking  with  undisguised  interest  at  the  spot 
where  he  had  disappeared,  tracing  him  for  a  while  through 
the  moving  foliage,  listening  to  the  crackling  of  the  under- 
brush, as  the  sounds  receded. 

It  was  time  to  be  turning  homeward,  but  the  hour  was 
still  inviting,  the  breeze  balmy,  the  sun  not  too  warm,  so 
Peter  lay  back  among  the  grasses  in  the  sand  smoking  a 
fresh  cigarette.  Far  overhead  buzzards  were  wheeling. 
They  recalled  those  other  birds  of  prey  that  he  had  often 
watched,  ready  to  swoop  down  along  the  lines  of  the  al- 
most defenseless  Russians.  Here  all  was  so  quiet.  The 
world  was  a  very  beautiful  place  if  men  would  only  leave 
it  so.  The  voice  of  the  girl  was  silent  now.  Shad  had 
probably  joined  her.  Somehow,  Peter  hadn't  been  able 
to  think  of  any  relationship,  other  than  the  cousinly  one, 
between  Shad  Wells  and  Beth.  He  had  only  known  the 
79 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


girl  for  half  an  hour  but  as  Aunt  Tillie  Bergen  had  said, 
her  niece  seemed  different  from  the  other  natives  that 
Peter  had  met.  Her  teeth  were  sound  and  white,  sug- 
gesting habits  of  personal  cleanliness;  her  conversation, 
though  careless,  showed  at  the  very  least,  a  grammar 
school  training.  And  Shad — well,  Shad  was  nothing  but  a 
"Piney." 

Pity — with  a  voice  like  that — she  ought  to  have  had  op- 
portunities— this  scornful  little  Beth.  Peter  closed  his 
eyes  and  dozed.  He  expected  to  have  no  difficulty  in  find- 
ing his  way  home,  for  he  had  a  pocket  compass  and  the 
road  could  not  be  far  distant.  He  liked  this  place.  He 
would  build  a  tower  here,  a  hundred-foot  tower,  of  timbers, 
and  here  a  man  should  be  stationed  all  day — to  watch  for 
wisps  of  smoke  during  the  hunting  season.  Smoke  .  .  . 
Tower  ...  In  a  moment  he  snored  gently. 

"Halloo !"  came  a  voice  in  his  dream.  "Halloo ! 
Halloo !" 

Peter  started  rubbing  his  eyes,  aware  of  the  smoking 
cigarette  in  the  grasses  beside  him. 

Stupid,  that !  To  do  the  very  thing  he  had  been  warn- 
ing Shad  Wells  against.  He  smeared  the  smoking  stub 
out  in  the  sand  and  sat  up  yawning  and  stretching  his 
arms. 

"Halloo !"  said  the  voice  in  his  dream,  almost  at  his 
ear.  "Tryin'  to  set  the  woods  afire?" 

The  question  had  the  curious  dropping  intonation  at 
its  end.  But  the  purport  annoyed  him. 

Nothing  that  she  could  have  said  could  have  provoked 
him  more!  Behind  her  he  saw  the  dark  face  of  Shad 
Wells  break  into  a  grin. 

"I  fell  asleep,"  said  Peter,  getting  to  his  feet. 

Beth  laughed.  "Lucky  you  weren't  burnt  to  death. 
Then  how  would  the  trees  get  along?" 

Peter's  toe  burrowed  after  the  defunct  cigarette. 
80 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


"I  know  what  I'm  about,"  he  muttered,  aware  of  further 
loss  of  dignity. 

"Oh,  do  you?  Then  which  way  were  you  thinkin'  of 
goin'  home?" 

Peter  glanced  around,  pointed  vaguely,  and  Beth  Cam- 
eron laughed. 

"I  guess  you'd  land  in  Egg  Harbor,  or  thereabouts." 

Her  laugh  was  infectious  and  Peter  at  last  echoed  it. 

"You's  better  be  goin'  along  with  us.  Shad  asked  me 
to  come  and  get  you,  didn't  you,  Shad?" 

Peter  glanced  at  the  woodsman's  black  scowl  and 
grinned,  recalling  his  desertion  and  precipitate  disappear- 
ance into  the  bushes. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  both,"  said 
Peter  diplomatically.  "But  I  think  I  can  find  my  way 
in." 

"Not  if  you  start  for  Hammonton  or  Absecon,  you 
can't.  I've  known  people  to  spend  the  night  in  the  woods 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  home." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  that." 

"But  Shad  would.  He'd  feel  a  great  responsibility  if 
you  didn't  turn  up  for  the  ghost-hunt.  Wouldn't  you, 
Shad?" 

Shad  wagged  his  head  indeterminately,  and  spat. 
"Come  on,"  he  said  sullenly,  and  turned,  leading  the  way 
out  to  the  northward,  followed  by  Beth  with  an  inviting 
smile.  She  still  wore  her  denim  overalls  which  were  much 
too  long  for  her  and  her  dusty  brown  boots  seemed  like  a 
child's.  Between  moments  of  avoiding  roots  and  branches, 
Peter  watched  her  strong  young  figure  as  it  followed  their 
leader.  Yesterday,  he  had  thought  her  small;  to-day  she 
seemed  to  have  increased  in  stature — so  uncertain  is  the 
masculine  judgment  upon  any  aspect  of  a  woman.  But 
his  notions  in  regard  to  her  grace  and  loveliness  were  only 
confirmed.  There  was  no  concealing  them  under  her 
81 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 

^     — -^— •- ••"^  ••• 

absurd  garments.  Her  flanks  were  long  and  lithe,  like  a 
boy's,  but  there  was  something  feminine  in  the  way  she 
moved,  a  combination  of  ease  and  strength  made  manifest, 
which  could  only  come  of  well-made  limbs  carefully 
jointed.  Every  little  while  she  flashed  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  him,  exchanging  a  word,  even  politely  holding 
back  a  branch  until  he  caught  it,  or  else  when  he  was  least 
expecting  it,  letting  it  fly  into  his  face.  From  time  to 
time  Shad  Wells  would  turn  to  look  at  them  and  Peter 
could  see  that  he  wasn't  as  happy  as  he  might  have  been. 
But  Beth  was  very  much  enjoying  herself. 

They  had  emerged  at  last  into  the  road  and  walked  to- 
ward Black  Rock,  Beth  in  the  center  and  Peter  and  Shad 
on  either  side. 

"I've  been  thinkin'  about  what  you  said  yesterday," 
said  Beth  to  Peter. 

"About ?" 

"Singin*  like  an  angel  in  Heaven,"  she  said  promptly 
aware  of  Shad's  bridling  glance. 

"Oh,  well,"  repeated  Peter,  "you  do — you  know." 
"It  was  very  nice  of  you — and  you  a  musician." 
"Musician!"  growled  Shad.     "He  ain't  a  musician." 
"Oh,  yes,  he  is,  and  he  says  I've  a  voice  like  an  angel. 
You  never  said  that,  Shad  Wells." 

"No.    Nor  I  won't,"  he  snapped  surlily. 
Peter  would  have  been  more  amused  if  he  hadn't  thought 
that  Shad  Wells  was  unhappy. 

He  needed  the  man's  allegiance  and  he  had  no  wish  to 
make  an  enemy  of  him. 

"Musician !"  Shad  growled.  "Then  it  was  you  the  men 
heard  last  night." 

"I  found  a  piano  in  the  cabin.  I  was  trying  it,"  said 
Peter.  Shad  said  nothing  in  reply  but  he  put  every  shade 
of  scorn  into  the  way  in  which  he  spat  into  the  road. 

"A  piano !"  Beth  gasped.   "Where?  What  cabin?" 

82 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


"The  playhouse — where  I  live,"  said  Peter  politely. 

"Oh." 

There  was  a  silence  on  the  part  of  both  of  his  com- 
panions, awkwardly  long. 

So  Peter  made  an  effort  to  relieve  the  tension,  com- 
menting on  the  new  arrivals  at  Black  Rock  House. 

At  the  mention  of  Peggy's  name  Beth  showed  fresh 
excitement. 

"MissMcGuire!    Here?    When ?" 

"This  morning.     Do  you  know  her?" 

"No.     But  I've  seen  her.     I  think  she's  just  lovely." 

"Why?" 

"She  wears  such  beautiful  clothes  and — and  hats  and 
veils." 

Peter  laughed.  "And  that's  your  definition  of  loveli- 
ness." 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said  in  wonder.  "Last  year  all  the 
girls  were  copyin'  her,  puttin'  little  puffs  of  hair  over 
their  ears — I  tried  it,  but  it  looked  funny.  Is  she  going 
to  be  here  long?  Has  she  got  a  'beau'  with  her?  She 
always  had.  It's  a  wonder  she  doesn't  run  over  somebody, 
the  way  she  drives." 

"She  nearly  got  me  this  mornin',"  growled  Shad. 

"I  wish  she  would — if  you're  going  to  look  like  a  meat- 
ax,  Shad  Wells." 

There  was  no  reconciling  them  now,  and  when  Beth's 
home  was  reached,  all  three  of  them  went  different 
ways.  What  a  rogue  she  was !  And  poor  Shad  Wells  who 
was  to  have  taken  Peter  at  a  gobble,  seemed  a  very  poor 
sort  of  a  creature  in  Beth's  hands. 

She  amused  Peter  greatly,  but  she  annoyed  him  a  little 
too,  ruffled  up  the  shreds  of  his  princely  dignity,  not  yet 
entirely  inured  to  the  trials  of  social  regeneration.  And 
Shad's  blind  adoration  was  merely  a  vehicle  for  her  amuse- 
ment. It  would  have  been  very  much  better  if  she  hadn't 
83 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


used  Peter's  compliment  as  a  bait  for  Shad.  Peter  had 
come  to  the  point  of  liking  the  rough  foreman  even  if  he 
was  a  new  kind  of  human  animal  from  anything  in  Peter's 
experience. 

And  so  was  Beth.  A  new  kind  of  animal — something 
between  a  harrier  and  a  skylark,  but  wholesome  and  hu- 
man too,  a  denim  dryad,  the  spirit  of  health,  joy  and 
beauty,  a  creature  good  to  look  at,  in  spite  of  her  envy 
of  the  fashionable  Miss  Peggy  McGuire  with  her  modish 
hats,  cerise  veils  and  ear  puffs,  her  red  roadsters  and  her 
beaux.  Poverty  sat  well  upon  Beth  and  the  frank  blue 
eyes  and  resolute  chin  gave  notice  that  whatever  was  to 
happen  to  her  future  she  was  honorable  and  unafraid. 

But  if  there  was  something  very  winning  about  her, 
there  was  something  pathetic  too.  Her  beauty  was  so  un- 
conscious of  her  ridiculous  clothing,  and  yet  Peter  had 
come  to  think  of  it  as  a  part  of  her,  wondering  indeed  what 
she  would  look  like  in  feminine  apparel,  in  which  he  could 
not  imagine  her,  for  the  other  girls  of  Black  Rock  had 
not  so  far  blessed  his  vision.  Aunt  Tillie  Bergen  had 
told  him,  over  his  late  breakfast,  of  the  difficulties  that 
she  and  Beth  had  had  to  keep  their  little  place  going  and 
how  Beth,  after  being  laid  off  for  the  summer  at  the  fac- 
tory, had  insisted  upon  working  in  the  Gaskill's  vineyard 
to  help  out  with  the  household.  There  ought  to  be  some- 
thing for  Beth  Cameron,  better  than  this — something  less 
difficult — more  ennobling. 

Thinking  of  these  things  Peter  made  his  way  back  to 
the  cabin.  Nothing  of  a  disturbing  nature  had  happened 
around  Black  Rock  House,  except  the  arrival  of  the  re- 
mainder of  McGuire's  unwelcome  house  party,  which  had 
taken  to  wandering  aimlessly  through  the  woods,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  Jesse  Brown,  who,  lost  in  the  choice  be- 
tween "dudes"  and  desperadoes,  had  given  up  any  at- 
tempt to  follow  Peter's  careful  injunctions  in  regard  to 
84 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


McGuire.  It  was  still  early  and  the  supper  hour  was 
seven,  so  Peter  unpacked  his  small  trunk  which  had  ar- 
rived in  his  absence  and  then,  carefully  shutting  door  and 
windows,  sat  at  the  piano  and  played  quietly  at  first,  a 
"Reverie"  of  Tschaikowsky,  a  "Berceuse"  of  Cesar  Cui, 
the  "Valse  Triste"  of  Jean  Sibelius  and  then  forgetting 
himself — launched  forth  into  Chopin's  C  Minor  Etude. 
His  fingers  were  stiff  for  lack  of  practice  and  the  piano 
was  far  from  perfect,  but  in  twenty  minutes  he  had  for- 
gotten the  present,  lost  in  memories.  He  had  played  this 
for  Anastasie  Galitzin.  He  saw  the  glint  of  the  shaded 
piano  lamp  upon  her  golden  head,  recalled  her  favorite 
perfume.  .  .  .  Silver  nights  upon  the  castle  terrace.  .  .  . 
Golden  walks  through  the  autumn  forest.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  a  bell  rang  loudly  at  Peter's  side,  it  seemed. 
Then  while  he  wondered,  it  rang  again.  Of  course — the 
telephone.  He  found  the  instrument  in  the  corner  and 
put  the  receiver  to  his  ear.  It  was  McGuire's  voice. 

"That  you,  Nichols  ?"  it  asked  in  an  agitated  staccato. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  it's  getting  dark,  what  have  you  done  about  to- 
night?" 

"Same  as  last  night,"  said  Peter  smiling,  "only  more 
careful?' 

"Well,  I  want  things  changed,"  the  gruff  voice  rose. 
"The  whole  d — n  house  is  open.  I  can't  shut  it  with  these 
people  here.  Your  men  will  have  to  move  in  closer — but 
keep  under  cover.  Can  you  arrange  it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"I'll  want  you  here — with  me — you  understand.  You 
were  coming  to  supper?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well — er — I've  told  my  daughter  and  so — would  you 

mind  putting  on  a  dress  suit ?    Er — if  you  have  one 

— a  Tuxedo  will  do." 

85 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter.    "That's  all  right." 

«Oh — er — thanks.    You'll  be  up  soon?" 

"Yes." 

«Good-by." 

With  a  grin,  Peter  hung  up  the  receiver,  recalling  the 
soiled,  perspiring,  unquiet  figure  of  his  employer  last 
night.  But  it  seemed  as  though  McGuire  were  almost 
as  much  in  awe  of  his  daughter  as  of  the  danger  that 
threatened,  for,  in  the  McGuire  household,  Miss  Peggy,  it 
appeared,  was  paramount. 

Peter's  bathroom  was  Cedar  Creek.  In  his  robe,  he  ran 
down  the  dusky  path  for  a  quick  plunge.  Then,  re- 
freshed and  invigorated,  he  lighted  his  lamp  and  dressed 
leisurely.  He  had  come  to  his  cravat,  to  which  he  was 
wont  to  pay  more  than  a  casual  attention,  when  he  was 
aware  of  a  feeling  of  discomfort — of  unease.  In  the 
mirror  something  moved,  a  shadow,  at  the  corner  of  the 
window.  He  waited  a  moment,  still  fingering  his  cravat, 
and  then  sure  that  his  eyes  had  made  no  mistake,  turned 
quickly  and,  revolver  in  hand,  rushed  outside.  Just  as  he 
did  so  a  man  with  a  startled  face  disappeared  around 
the  corner  of  the  cabin.  Peter  rushed  after  him,  shouting 
and  turned  the  edge  just  in  time  to  see  his  shape  leap 
into  the  bushes. 

"Who  goes  there?"  shouted  Peter  crisply.  "Halt,  or 
I'll  fire." 

But  the  only  reply  was  a  furious  crashing  in  the  under- 
growth. Peter  fired  twice  at  the  sound,  then  followed  in, 
still  calling. 

No  sound.  Under  the  conditions  a  chase  was  hopeless, 
so  Peter  paused  listening.  And  then  after  a  few  mo- 
ments a  more  distant  crackling  advised  him  that  his  visitor 
had  gotten  well  away.  And  so  after  a  while  he  returned 
to  the  cabin  and  with  his  weapon  beside  him  finished  his 
interrupted  toilet. 

86 


NEW  ELEMENTS 


But  his  brows  were  in  a  tangle.  The  mystery  surround- 
ing him  seemed  suddenly  to  have  deepened.  For  the  face 
that  he  had  seen  at  the  window  was  that  of  the  stranger 
who  had  stared  at  him  so  curiously — the  man  of  the  soft 
hat  and  dark  mustache — who  had  seemed  so  startled  at 
seeing  him  in  the  Pennsylvania  Station  when  he  was  leav- 
ing New  York. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

WHO — what  was  this  stranger  who  seemed  so  inter- 
ested in  his  whereabouts?  Peter  was  sure  that 
he  had  made  no  mistake.  It  was  an  unusual  face, 
swarthy,  with  high  cheek  bones,  dark  eyes,  a  short  nose 
with  prominent  nostrils.  Perhaps  it  would  not  have  been 
so  firmly  impressed  on  his  memory  except  for  the  cu- 
rious look  of  startled  recognition  that  Peter  had  surprised 
on  it  at  the  station  in  New  York.  This  had  puzzled  him 
for  some  moments  in  the  train  but  had  been  speedily  lost 
in  the  interest  of  his  journey.  The  man  had  followed 
him  to  Black  Rock.  But  why?  What  did  he  want  of 
Peter  and  why  should  he  skulk  around  the  cabin  and  risk 
the  danger  of  Peter's  bullets?  It  seemed  obvious  that  he 
was  here  for  some  dishonest  purpose,  but  what  dishonest 
purpose  could  have  any  interest  in  Peter?  If  robbery, 
why  hadn't  the  man  chosen  the  time  while  Peter  was  away 
in  the  woods?  Peter  grinned  to  himself.  If  the  man  had 
any  private  sources  of  information  as  to  Peter's  per- 
sonal assets,  he  would  have  known  that  they  consisted  of 
a  two-dollar  watch  and  a  small  sum  in  money.  If  the 
dishonest  purpose  were  murder  or  injury,  why  hadn't  he 
attacked  Peter  while  he  was  bathing,  naked  and  quite  de- 
fenseless, in  the  creek? 

There  seemed  to  be  definite  answers  to  all  of  these  ques- 
tions, but  none  to  the  fact  of  the  man's  presence,  to  the 
fact  of  his  look  of  recognition,  or  to  the  fact  of  his  wish 
to  be  unobserved.  Was  he  a  part  of  the  same  conspiracy 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

which  threatened  McGuire?  Or  was  this  a  little  private 
conspiracy  arranged  for  Peter  alone?  And  if  so,  why? 
So  far  as  Peter  knew  he  hadn't  an  enemy  in  America,  and 
even  if  he  had  made  one,  it  was  hardly  conceivable  that 
any  one  should  go  to  such  lengths  to  approach  an  issue 
and  then  deliberately  avoid  it. 

But  there  seemed  no  doubt  that  something  was  up  and 
that,  later,  more  would  be  heard  from  this  curious  inci- 
dent. It  seemed  equally  certain  that  had  the  stranger 
meant  to  shoot  Peter  he  could  easily  have  done  so  in  per- 
fect safety  to  himself  through  the  window,  while  Peter 
was  fastening  his  cravat.  Reloading  his  revolver  and 
slipping  it  into  his  pocket,  Peter  locked  the  cabin  care- 
fully, and  after  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  woods  for 
awhile,  made  his  way  up  the  path  to  Black  Rock  House. 

He  had  decided  to  say  nothing  about  the  incident  which, 
so  far  as  he  could  see,  concerned  only  himself,  and  so 
when  the  men  on  guard  questioned  him  about  the  shots 
that  they  had  heard  he  told  them  that  he  had  been 
firing  at  a  mark.  This  was  quite  true,  even  if  the  mark 
had  been  invisible.  Shad  Wells  was  off  duty  until  mid- 
night so  Peter  went  the  rounds,  calling  the  men  to  the 
guardhouse  and  telling  them  of  the  change  in  the  orders. 
They  were  to  wait  until  the  company  upon  the  portico 
went  indoors  and  then,  with  Jesse  in  command,  they  were 
to  take  new  stations  in  trees  and  clumps  of  bushes  which 
Peter  designated  much  nearer  the  house.  The  men  eyed 
his  dinner  jacket  with  some  curiosity  and  not  a  little  awe, 
and  Peter  informed  them  that  it  was  the  old  man's  order 
and  that  he,  Peter,  was  going  to  keep  watch  from  inside 
the  house,  but  that  a  blast  from  a  whistle  would  fetch  him 
out.  He  also  warned  them  that  it  was  McGuire's  wish 
that  none  of  the  visitors  should  be  aware  of  the  watchmen 
and  that  therefore  there  should  be  no  false  alarms. 
Curiously  enough  Peter  found  McGuire  in  a  state  very 
89 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


nearly  bordering  on  calm.  He  had  had  a  drink.  He  had 
not  heard  the  shots  Peter  had  fired  nor  apparently  had 
any  of  the  regular  occupants  of  the  house.  The  visitors 
had  possibly  disregarded  them.  From  the  pantry  came 
a  sound  with  which  Peter  was  familiar,  for  Stryker  was 
shaking  the  cocktails.  And  when  the  ladies  came  down- 
stairs the  two  men  on  the  portico  came  in  and  Peter 
was  presented  to  the  others  of  the  party,  Miss  Delaplane, 
Mr.  Gittings  and  Mr.  Mordaunt.  The  daughter  of  the 
house  examined  Peter's  clothing  and  then,  having  appar- 
ently revised  her  estimate  of  him,  became  almost  cordial, 
bidcttng  him  sit  next  Miss  Delaplane  at  table. 

Mildred  Delaplane  was  tall,  handsome,  dark  and  aqui- 
line, and  made  a  foil  for  Peggy's  blond  prettiness.  Peter 
thought  her  a  step  above  Peggy  in  the  cultural  sense, 
and  only  learned  afterward  that  as  she  was  not  very  well 
off,  Peggy  was  using  her  as  a  rung  in  the  social  ladder. 
Mordaunt,  Peter  didn't  fancy,  but  Gittings,  who  was 
jovial  and  bald,  managed  to  inject  some  life  into  the 
party,  which,  despite  the  effect  of  the  cocktails,  seemed 
rather  weary  and  listless. 

McGuire  sat  rigidily  at  the  head  of  the  table,  forcing 
smiles  and  glancing  uneasily  at  doors  and  windows.  Peter 
was  worried  too,  not  as  to  himself,  but  as  to  any  possible 
connection  that  there  might  be  between  the  man  with  the 
dark  mustache  and  the  affairs  of  Jonathan  McGuire. 
Mildred  Delaplane,  who  had  traveled  in  Europe  in  ante- 
bellum days,  found  much  that  was  interesting  in  Peter's 
fragmentary  reminiscences.  She  knew  music  too,  and  in 
an  unguarded  moment  Peter  admitted  that  he  had  studied. 
It  was  difficult  to  lie  to  women,  he  had  found. 

And  so,  after  dinner,  that  information  having  trans- 
pired, he  was  immediately  led  to  the  piano-stool  by  his 
hostess,  who  was  frequently  biased  in  her  social  judg- 
ments by  Mildred  Delaplane.  Peter  played  Cyril  Scott's 
90 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Song  from  the  East,"  and  then,  sure  of  Miss  Delaplane's 
interest,  an  Etude  of  Scriabine,  an  old  favorite  of  his 
which  seemed  to  express  the  mood  of  the  moment. 

And  all  the  while  he  was  aware  of  Jonathan  McGuire, 
seated  squarely  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa  which  com- 
manded all  the  windows  and  doors,  with  one  hand  at  his 
pocket,  scowling  and  alert  by  turns,  for,  though  the  night 
had  fallen  slowly,  it  was  now  pitch  black  outside.  Peter 
knew  that  McGuire  was  thinking  he  hadn't  hired  his  su- 
perintendent as  a  musician  to  entertain  his  daughter's 
guests,  but  that  he  was  powerless  to  interfere.  Nor  did 
he  wish  to  excite  the  reprobation  of  his  daughter  by 
going  up  and  locking  himself  in  his  room.  Peggy,  having 
finished  her  cigarette  with  Freddy  on  the  portico,  had 
come  in  again  and  was  now  leaning  over  the  piano,  her 
gaze  fixed,  like  Mildred's,  upon  Peter's  mobile  fingers. 

"You're  really  too  wonderful  a  superintendent  to  be 
quite  true,"  said  Peggy  when  Peter  had  finished.  "But 
do  give  us  a  'rag.* " 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  do  rag- 
time." 

"Quit  your  kidding !    I  want  to  dance." 

"I'm  not — er — kidding,"  said  Peter,  laughing.  "I 
can't  play  it  at  all — not  at  all." 

Peggy  gave  him  a  look,  shrugged  and  walked  to  the 
door. 

"Fred-die-e!"  she  called. 

Peter  rose  from  the  piano-stool  and  crossed  to  Mc- 
Guire. The  man's  cigar  was  unsmoked  and  tiny  beads  of 
sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  worry,  sir,"  whispered  Peter. 
"The  men  are  all  around  the  house,  but  if  you  say,  I'll 
go  out  for  another  look  around." 

"No  matter.    I'll  stick  it  out  for  a  while." 
91 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"You're  better  off  here  than  anywhere,  I  should  say. 
No  one  would  dare " 

Here  Freddy  at  the  piano  struck  up  "Mary"  and  fur- 
ther conversation  was  drowned  in  commotion.  Mildred 
Delaplane  was  preempted  by  Mr.  Gittings  and  Peggy 
came  whirling  alone  toward  Peter,  arms  extended,  the 
passion  for  the  dance  outweighing  other  prejudices. 

Peter  took  a  turn,  but  four  years  of  war  had  done 
little  to  improve  his  steps. 

"I'm  afraid  all  my  dancing  is  in  my  fingers,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

Suddenly,  as  Freddy  Mordaunt  paused,  Peggy  stopped 
and  lowered  her  arms. 

"Good  Lord!"  she  gasped.  "What's  the  matter  with 
Pop?" 

McGuire  had  risen  unsteadily  and  was  peering  out  into 
the  darkness  through  the  window  opposite  him,  his  face 
pallid,  his  lips  drawn  into  a  thin  line.  Peggy  ran  to  him 
and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"What  is  it,  Pop?    Are  you  sick?" 

"N-no  matter.  Just  a  bit  upset.  If  you  don't  mind, 
daughter,  I  think  I'll  be  going  up." 

"Can  I  do  anything?" 

"No.  Stay  here  and  enjoy  yourselves.  Just  tell 
Stryker,  will  you,  Nichols,  and  then  come  up  to  my 
room." 

Peggy  was  regarding  him  anxiously  as  he  made  his 
way  to  the  door  and  intercepted  Peter  as  he  went  to  look 
for  the  valet. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Nichols?"  she  asked.     "He  may  be 

sick,  but  it  seems  to  me "  she  paused,  and  then,  "Did 

you  see  his  eyes  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window?" 

"Indigestion,"  said  Peter  coolly. 

"You'll  see  after  him,  won't  you?  And  if  he  wants  me, 
just  call  over." 

92 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"I'm  sure  he  won't  want  you.  A  few  home  reme- 
dies  " 

And  Peter  went  through  the  door.  Stryker  had  ap- 
peared mysteriously  from  somewhere  and  had  already 
preceded  his  master  up  the  stair.  When  Peter  reached 
the  landing,  McGuire  was  standing  alone  in  the  dark,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  his  gaze  on  the  lighted  bedroom  which 
the  valet  was  carefully  examining. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  asked  Peter  coolly.  "You  thought 
you  saw  something?" 

"Yes — out  there — on  the  side  portico " 

"You  must  be  mistaken — unless  it  was  one  of  the 
watchmen " 

"No,  no.     I  saw " 

"What,  sir?" 

"No  matter.     Do  you  think  Peggy  noticed?" 

"Just  that  you  didn't  seem  quite  yourself " 

"But  not  that  I  seemed— er " 

"Alarmed?     I  said  you  weren't  well." 

Peter  took  the  frightened  man's  arm  and  helped  him 
into  his  room. 

"I'm  not,  Nichols,"  he  groaned.     "I'm  not  myself." 

"I  wouldn't  worry,  sir.  I'd  say  it  was  physically  im- 
possible for  any  one  to  approach  the  house  without  per- 
mission. But  I'll  go  down  and  have  another  look  around." 

"Do,  Nichols.  But  come  back  up  here.  I'll  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

So  Peter  went  down.  And,  evading  inquiries  in  the 
hallway,  made  his  way  out  through  the  hall  and  pantry. 
Here  a  surprise  awaited  him,  for  as  he  opened  the  door 
there  was  a  skurry  of  light  footsteps  and  in  a  moment  he 
was  in  the  pantry  face  to  face  with  Beth  Cameron,  who 
seemed  much  dismayed  at  being  discovered. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  in 
amazement. 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


She  glanced  at  his  white  shirt  front  and  then  laughed. 

"I  came  to  help  Aunt  Tillie  dish  up." 

"You!"  He  didn't  know  why  he  should  have  been  so 
amazed  at  finding  her  occupying  a  menial  position  in 
this  household.  She  didn't  seem  to  belong  to  the  back 
stairs!  And  yet  there  she  was  in  a  plain  blue  gingham 
dress  which  made  her  seem  much  taller,  and  a  large 
apron,  her  tawny  hair  casting  agreeable  shadows  around 
her  blue  eyes,  which  he  noticed  seemed  much  darker  by 
night  than  by  day. 

She  noticed  the  inflection  of  his  voice  and  laughed. 

"Why  not?  I  thought  Aunt  Tillie  would  need  me — 
and  besides  I  wanted  to  peek  a  little." 

"Ah,  I  see.  You  wanted  to  seee  Miss  Peggy's  new 
frock  through  the  keyhole?" 

"Yes — and  the  other  one.     Aren't  they  pretty?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"I  listened,  too.    I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Eavesdropping !" 

She  nodded.  "Oh,  Mr.  Nichols,  but  you  do  play  the 
piano  beautifully!" 

"But  not  like  an  angel  in  Heaven,"  said  Peter  with  a 
smile. 

"Almost — if  angels  play.     You  make  me  forget " 

she  paused. 

"What ?" 

"That's  there's  anything  in  the  world  except  beauty." 

In  the  drawing-room  Freddy,  having  found  himself, 
had  swept  into  a  song  of  the  cabarets,  to  which  there  was 
a  "close  harmony"  chorus. 

"There's  that ,"  he  muttered,  jerking  a  thumb  in 

the  direction  from  which  he  had  come. 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said.  "That's  dif- 
ferent." 

"How— different?" 

94 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Wrong — false — un — unworthy " 

As  she  groped  for  and  found  the  word  he  stared  at  her 
in  astonishment.  And  in  her  eyes  back  of  the  joy  that 
seemed  to  be  always  dancing  in  them  he  saw  the  shadows 
of  a  sober  thought. 

"But  don't  you  like  dance  music?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do,  but  it's  only  for  the  feet.  Your  music  is 
for — for  here."  And  with  a  quick  graceful  gesture  she 
clasped  her  hands  upon  her  breast. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,  because  that's  where  it  comes 
from." 

At  this  point  Peter  remembered  his  mission,  which 
Beth's  appearance  had  driven  from  his  mind. 

"I'll  play  for  you  sometime,"  he  said. 

He  went  past  her  and  out  to  the  servants*  dining-room. 
As  he  entered  with  Beth  at  his  heels,  Mrs.  Bergen,  the 
housekeeper,  turned  in  from  the  open  door  to  the  kitchen 
garden,  clinging  to  the  jamb,  her  lips  mumbling,  as 
though  she  were  continuing  a  conversation.  But  her 
round  face,  usually  the  color  and  texture  of  a  well  ripened 
peach,  was  the  color  of  putty,  and  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  grown  old  and  haggard.  Her  eyes  through  her 
metal-rimmed  spectacles  seemed  twice  their  size  and  stared 
at  Peter  as  though  they  saw  through  him  and  beyond. 
She  faltered  at  the  door-jamb  and  then  with  an  effort 
reached  a  chair,  into  which  she  sank  gasping. 

Beth  was  kneeling  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  looking  up 
anxiously  into  her  startled  eyes. 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Aunt  Tillie?"  she  whispered  quickly. 
"What  it  is?  Tell  me." 

The  coincidence  was  too  startling.  Could  the  same 
Thing  that  had  frightened  McGuire  have  frightened  the 
housekeeper  too?  Peter  rushed  past  her  and  out  of  the 
open  door.  It  was  dark  outside  and  for  a  moment  he 
could  see  nothing.  Then  objects  one  by  one  asserted 
95 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


themselves,  the  orderly  rows  of  vegetable  plants  in  the 
garden,  the  wood-box  by  the  door,  the  shrubbery  at  the 
end  of  the  portico,  the  blue  spruce  tree  opposite,  the  loom 
of  the  dark  and  noncommittal  garage.  He  knew  that 
one  of  his  men  was  in  the  trees  opposite  the  side  porch 
and  another  around  the  corner  of  the  kitchen,  in  the 
hedge,  but  he  did  not  want  to  raise  a  hue  and  cry  unless 
it  was  necessary.  What  was  this  Thing  that  created 
terror  at  sight?  He  peered  this  way  and  that,  aware 
of  an  intense  excitement,  in  one  hand  his  revolver  and  in 
the  other  his  police  whistle.  But  he  saw  no  object  move, 
and  the  silence  was  absolute.  In  a  moment — disappointed 
— he  hurried  back  to  the  servants'  dining-room. 

Mrs.  Bergen  sat  dazed  in  her  chair,  while  Beth,  who 
had  brought  her  a  glass  of  water,  was  making  her  drink 
of  it. 

"Tell  me,  what  is  it?"  Beth  was  insisting. 

"Nothing — nothing,"    murmured   the   woman. 

"But  there  is " 

"No,  dearie " 

"Are  you  sick?" 

"I  don't  feel  right.    Maybe— the  heat " 

"But  your  eyes  look  queer " 

"Do  they ?"     The  housekeeper  tried  to  smile. 

"Yes.     Like  they  had  seen " 

A  little  startled  as  she  remembered  the  mystery  of  the 
house,  Beth  cast  her  glance  into  the  darkness  outside  the 
open  door. 

"You  are — frightened!"  she  said. 

«No,  no " 

"What  was  it  you  saw,  Mrs.  Bergen,"  asked  Peter 
gently. 

He  was  just  at  her  side  and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice 
she  half  arose,  but  recognizing  Peter  she  sank  back  in 
her  chair. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

Peter  repeated  his  question,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Won't  you  tell  us?  What  was  it  you  saw?  A 
man ?" 

Her  eyes  sought  Beth's  and  a  look  of  tenderness  came 
into  them,  banishing  the  vision.  But  she  lied  when  she 
answered  Peter's  question. 

"I  saw  nothin',  Mr.  Nichols — I  think  I'll  go  up " 

She  took  another  swallow  of  the  water  and  rose.  And 
with  her  strength  came  a  greater  obduracy. 

"I  saw  nothin5 "  she  repeated  again,  as  she  saw 

that  he  was  still  looking  at  her.  "Nothin'  at  all." 

Peter  and  Beth  exchanged  glances  and  Beth,  putting 
her  hand  under  the  housekeeper's  arm,  helped  the  woman 
to  the  back  stairs. 

Peter  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
floor,  his  gaze  on  the  door  through  which  the  woman  had 
vanished.  Aunt  Tillie  too !  She  had  seen  some  one,  some 
Thing — the  same  some  one  or  Thing  that  McGuire  had 
seen.  But  granting  that  their  eyes  had  not  deceived 
them,  granting  that  each  had  seen  Something,  what,  un- 
less it  were  supernatural,  could  have  frightened  McGuire 
and  Aunt  Tillie  too?  Even  if  the  old  woman  had  been 
timid  about  staying  in  the  house,  she  had  made  it  clear 
to  Peter  that  she  was  entirely  unaware  of  the  kind  of 
danger  that  threatened  her  employer.  Peter  had  believed 
her  then.  He  saw  no  reason  to  disbelieve  her  now.  She 
had  known  as  little  as  Peter  about  the  cause  for  Mc- 
Guire's  alarm.  And  here  he  had  found  her  staring  with 
the  same  unseeing  eyes  into  the  darkness,  with  the  same 
symptoms  of  nervous  shock  as  McGuire  had  shown.  What 
enemy  of  McGuire's  could  frighten  Aunt  Tillie  into  pros- 
tration and  seal  her  lips  to  speech?  Why  wouldn't  she 
have  dared  to  tell  Peter  what  she  had  seen?  What  was 
this  secret  and  how  could  she  share  it  with  McGuire  when 
twenty-four  hours  ago  she  had  been  in  complete  ignorance 
97 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


of  the  nivstery?    Why  wouldn't  she  talk?    Was  the  vision 
too  intimate?    Or  too  horrible? 

Peter  was  imaginative,  for  he  had  been  steeped  from 
boyhood  in  the  superstitions  of  his  people.  But  the  war 
had  taught  him  that  devils  had  legs  and  carried  weapons. 
He  had  seen  more  horrible  sights  than  most  men  of  his 
years,  in  daylight,  at  dawn,  or  silvered  with  moonlight. 
He  thought  he  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  for  terror. 
But  he  found  himself  grudgingly  admitting  that  he  was 
at  the  least  a  little  nervous — at  the  most,  on  the  verge 
of  alarm.  But  he  put  his  whistle  in  his  mouth,  drew  his 
revolver  again  and  went  forth. 

First  he  sought  out  the  man  in  the  spruce  tree.  It 
was  Andy.  He  had  seen  no  one  but  the  people  on  the 
porch  and  in  the  windows.  It  was  very  dark  but  he 
took  an  oath  that  no  one  had  approached  the  house 
from  his  side. 

"You  saw  no  one  talking  with  Mrs.  Bergen  by  the 
kitchen  door?" 

"No.     I  can't  see  th*  kitchen  door  from  here." 

Peter  verified.    A  syringa  bush  was  just  in  line. 

"Then  you  haven't  moved?"  asked  Peter. 

"No.     I  was  afraid  they'd  see  me." 

"They've  seen  something " 

"You  mean ?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  look  sharp.  If  anything  comes 
out  this  way,  take  a  shot  at  it." 

"You  think  there's  something " 

"Yes — but  don't  move.     And  keep  your  eyes  open !" 

Peter  went  off  to  the  man  in  the  hedge  behind  the 
kitchen — Jesse  Brown. 

"See  anything?"  asked  Peter. 

"Nope.    Nobody  but  the  chauffeur." 

"The  chauffeur?" 

"He  went  up  to  th'  house  a  while  back." 
98 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"Oh — how  long  ago?" 

"Twenty  minutes." 

"I  see."  And  then,  "You  didn't  see  any  one  come 
away  from  the  kitchen  door?" 

"No.     He's  thar  yet,  I  reckon." 

Peter  ran  out  to  the  garage  to  verify  this  statement. 
By  the  light  of  a  lantern  the  chauffeur  in  his  rubber  boots 
was  washing  the  two  cars. 

"Have  you  been  up  to  the  house  lately?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  man,  in  surprise. 

"You're  sure?"  asked  Peter  excitedly. 

"Sure " 

"Then  come  with  me.     There's  something  on." 

The  man  dropped  his  sponge  and  followed  Peter,  who 
had  run  back  quickly  to  the  house. 

It  was  now  after  eleven.  From  the  drawing-room  came 
the  distracting  sounds  from  the  tortured  piano,  but  there 
was  no  one  on  the  portico.  So  Peter,  with  Jesse,  Andy 
and  the  chauffeur  made  a  careful  round  of  the  house,  ex- 
amining every  bush,  every  tree,  within  a  circle  of  a  hun- 
dred yards,  exhausting  every  possibility  for  concealment. 
When  they  reached  the  kitchen  door  again,  Peter  rubbed 
his  head  and  gave  it  up.  A  screech  owl  somewhere  off  in 
the  woods  jeered  at  him.  All  the  men,  except  Jesse,  were 
plainly  skeptical.  But  he  sent  them  back  to  their  posts 
and,  still  pondering  the  situation,  went  into  the  house. 

It  was  extraordinary  how  the  visitor,  whoever  he  was, 
could  have  gotten  away  without  having  been  observed, 
for  though  the  night  was  black  the  eyes  of  the  men  out- 
side were  accustomed  to  it  and  the  lights  from  the  win- 
dows sent  a  glimmer  into  the  obscurity.  Of  one  thing 
Peter  was  now  certain,  that  the  prowler  was  no  ghost 
or  banshee,  but  a  man,  and  that  he  had  gone  as  myste- 
riously as  he  had  come. 

Peter  knew  that  his  employer  would  be  anxious  until 
99 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


he  returned  to  him,  but  he  hadn't  quite  decided  to  tell 
McGuire  of  the  housekeeper's  share  in  the  adventure.  He 
had  a  desire  to  verify  his  belief  that  Mrs.  Bergen  was 
frightened  by  the  visitor  for  a  reason  of  her  own  which 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Jonathan  McGuire.  Any  woman 
alarmed  by  a  possible  burglar  or  other  miscreant  would 
have  come  running  and  crying  for  help.  Mrs.  Bergen  had 
been  doggedly  silent,  as  though,  rather  than  utter  her 
thoughts,  she  would  have  bitten  out  her  tongue.  It  was 
curious.  She  had  seemed  to  be  talking  as  though  to  her- 
self at  the  door,  and  then,  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  in 
the  kitchen  behind  her,  had  turned  and  fallen  limp  in  the 
nearest  chair.  The  look  in  her  face,  as  in  McGuire's, 
was  that  of  terror,  but  there  was  something  of  bewilder- 
ment in  both  of  them  too,  like  that  of  a  solitary  sniper 
in  tne  first  shock  of  a  shrapnel  wound,  a  look  of  anguish 
that  seemed  to  have  no  outlet,  save  in  speech,  which  was 
denied. 

To  tell  McGuire  what  had  happened  in  the  kitchen 
meant  to  alarm  him  further.  Peter  decided  for  the  pres- 
ent to  keep  the  matter  from  him,  giving  the  housekeeper 
the  opportunity  of  telling  the  truth  on  the  morrow  if  she 
wished. 

He  crossed  the  kitchen  and  servants'  dining-room  and 
just  at  the  foot  of  the  back  stairs  met  Mrs.  Bergen  and 
Beth  coming  down.  So  he  retraced  his  steps  into  the 
kitchen,  curious  as  to  the  meaning  of  her  reappearance. 

At  least  she  had  recovered  the  use  of  her  tongue. 

"I  couldn't  go  to  bed,  just  yet,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  said 
in  reply  to  Peter's  question.  "I  just  couldn't." 

Peter  gazed  at  her  steadily.  This  woman  held  a  clew 
to  the  mystery.  She  glanced  at  him  uncertainly  but  she 
had  recovered  her  self-possession,  and  her  replies  to  his 
questions,  if  anything,  were  more  obstinate  than  before. 

"I  saw  nothin*,  Mr.  Nichols — nothin'.  I  was  just  a 
100 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

bit  upset.     I'm  all  right  now.     An5  I  want  Beth  to  go 
home.     That's  why  I  came  down." 

"But,  Aunt  Tillie,  if  you're  not  well,  I'm  going  to 
stay " 

"No.  Ye  can't  stay  here.  I  want  ye  to  go."  And 
then,  turning  excitedly  to  Peter,  "Can't  ye  let  somebody 
see  her  home,  Mr.  Nichols?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter.  "But  I  don't  think  she's  in 
any  danger." 

"No,  but  she  can't  stay  here.    She  just  can't." 

Beth  put  her  arm  around  the  old  woman's  shoulder. 

"I'm  not  afraid." 

Aunt  Tillie  was  already  untying  Beth's  apron. 

"I  know  ye're  not,  dearie.  But  ye  can't  stay  here.  I 
don't  want  ye  to.  I  don't  want  ye  to." 

"But  if  you're  afraid  of  something " 

"Who  said  I  was  afraid?"  she  asked,  glaring  at  Peter 
defiantly.  "I'm  not.  I  just  had  a  spell — all  this  excite- 
ment an'  extra  work — an'  everything." 

She  lied.  Peter  knew  it,  but  he  saw  no  object  to  be 
gained  in  keeping  Beth  in  Black  Rock  House,  so  he  went 
out  cautiously  and  brought  the  chauffeur,  to  whom  he 
entrusted  the  safety  of  the  girl.  He  would  have  felt  more 
comfortable  if  he  could  have  escorted  her  himself,  but  he 
knew  that  his  duty  was  at  the  house  and  that  whoever  the 
mysterious  person  was  it  was  not  Beth  that  he  wanted. 

But  what  was  Mrs.  Bergen's  reason  for  wishing  to  get 
rid  of  her? 

As  Beth  went  out  of  the  door  he  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"Say  nothing  of  this — to  any  one." 

She  nodded  gravely  and  followed  the  man  who  had 
preceded  her. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  Beth  and  the  chauffeur, 
Peter  turned  quickly  and  faced  the  housekeeper. 

"Now,"  he  said  severely,  "tell  me  the  truth." 
101 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


She  stared  at  him  with  a  falling  jaw  in  a  moment  of 
alarm — then  closed  her  lips  firmly.  And,  as  she  refused 
to  reply, 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  Mr.  McGuire  that  you  were 
talking  to  a  stranger  at  the  kitchen  door?" 

She  trembled  and  sinking  in  a  chair  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  unkind,  Mrs.  Bergen,  but  there's 
something  here  that  needs  explaining.  Who  was  the 
man  you  talked  to  outside  the  door?" 

"I— I  can't  tell  ye,"  she  muttered. 

"You  must.  It's  better.  I'm  your  friend  and 
Beth's " 

The  woman  raised  her  haggard  face  to  his. 

"Beth's  friend!     Are  ye?     Then  ask  me  no  more." 

"But  I've  got  to  know.  I'm  here  to  protect  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire, but  I'd  like  to  protect  you  too.  Who  is  this 
stranger?" 

The  woman  lowered  her  head  and  then  shook  it  vio- 
lently. "No,  no.  I'll  not  tell." 

He  frowned  down  at  her  head. 

"Did  you  know  that  to-night  McGuire  saw  the  stranger 
— the  man  that  you  saw — and  that  he's  even  more  fright- 
ened than  you?" 

The  woman  raised  her  head,  gazed  at  him  helplessly, 
then  lowered  it  again,  but  she  did  not  speak.  The  kitchen 
was  silent,  but  an  obbligato  to  this  drama,  like  the  bray 
of  the  ass  in  the  overture  to  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream," 
came  from  the  drawing-room,  where  Freddy  Mordaunt 
was  now  singing  a  sentimental  ballad. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Bergen,  but  if  Mr.  McGuire  is  in 
danger  to-night,  I've  got  to  know  it." 

"To-night!"  she  gasped,  as  though  clutching  at  a 
straw.  "Not  to-night.  Nothin'll  happen  to-night.  I'm 
sure  of  that,  Mr.  Nichols." 

102 


THE  HOUSE  OF  TERROR 

"How  do  you  know?" 

She  threw  out  her  arms  in  a  wide  gesture  of  despera- 
tion. 

"For  the  love  o'  God,  go  'way  an'  leave  me  in  peace. 
Don't  ye  see  I  ain't  fit  to  talk  to  anybody?"  She  gasped 
with  a  choking  throat.  "He  ain't  comin'  back  again — • 
not  to-night.  I'll  swear  it  on  th'  Bible,  if  ye  want  me  to." 

Their  glances  met,  hers  weary  and  pleading,  and  he  be- 
lieved her. 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Bergen,"  he  said  soothingly.  "I'll 
take  your  word  for  it,  but  you'll  admit  the  whole  thing 
is  very  strange — very  startling." 

"Yes — strange.  God  knows  it  is.  But  I — I  can't  tell 
ye  anything." 

"But  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  McGuire — upstairs.  I've 
got  to  go  up — now." 

"Say  to  him ?"  she  gasped  helplessly,  all  her  ter- 
rors renewed.  "Ye  can't  tell  him  I  was  talkin'  to  any- 
body." And  then  more  wildly,  "Ye  mustn't.  I  wasn't. 
I  was  talkin'  to  myself — that's  the  God's  truth,  I  was — 
when  ye  come  in.  It  was  so  strange — an'  all.  Don't  tell 
him,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  pleaded  at  last,  with  a  terrible 
earnestness,  and  clutching  at  his  hand.  "For  my  sake, 
for  Beth's " 

"What  has  Beth  to  do  with  it?" 

"More'n  ye  think.  Oh,  God "  she  broke  off.  "What 

am  I  sayin' ?  Beth  don't  know.  She  mustn't.  He 

don't  know  either " 

"Who?     McGuire?" 

"No — no.  Don't  ask  any  more  questions,  Mr.  Nich- 
ols," she  sobbed.  "I  can't  speak.  Don't  ye  see  I  can't  ?" 

So  Peter  gave  up  the  inquisition.  He  had  never  liked 
to  see  a  woman  cry. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said  more  cheerfully,  "you'd  better 
103 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


be  getting  to  bed.  Perhaps  daylight  will  clear  things 
up." 

"And  ye  won't  tell  McGuire?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  can't  promise  anything.  But  I  won't  if  I'm  not 
compelled  to." 

She  gazed  at  him  uncertainly,  her  weary  eyes  waver- 
ing, but  she  seemed  to  take  some  courage  from  his  at- 
titude. 

"God  bless  ye,  sir." 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Bergen." 

And  then,  avoiding  the  drawing-room,  Peter  made  his 
way  up  the  stairs  with  a  great  deal  of  mental  uncertainty 
to  the  other  room  of  terror. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MUSIC 

STRYKER,   who   kept   guard   at   the   door   of  Mc- 
Guire's  room,  opened  it  cautiously  in  response  to 
Peter's  knock.     He  found  McGuire  sitting  rigidly 
in  a  rocking-chair  at  the  side  of  the  room,  facing  the 
windows,  a  whisky  bottle  and  glass  on  the  table  beside 
him.     His  face  had  lost  its  pallor,  but  in  his  eyes  was 
the  same  look  of  glassy  bewilderment. 

"Why   the   H couldn't   you   come   sooner?'*     He 

whined  the  question,  not  angrily,  but  querulously,  like  a 
child. 

"I  was  having  a  look  around,"  replied  Peter  coolly. 

"Oh !    And  did  you  find  anybody?" 

"No." 

"H-m!    I  thought  you  wouldn't." 

Peter  hesitated.  He  meant  to  conceal  the  housekeeper's 
share  in  the  night's  encounters,  but  he  knew  that  both 
Andy  and  the  chauffeur  would  talk,  and  so, 

"There  "was  somebody  outside,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said. 
"You  were  not  mistaken,  a  man  prowling  in  the  dark  near 
the  kitchen.  Andy  thought  it  was  the  chauffeur,  who 
was  in  the  garage  washing  the  cars." 

"Ah!" 

McGuire  started  up,  battling  for  his  manhood.  It 
seemed  to  Peter  that  his  gasp  was  almost  one  of  relief  at 
discovering  that  his  eyes  had  not  deceived  him,  that  the 
face  he  had  seen  was  that  of  a  real  person,  instead  of  the 
figment  of  a  disordered  mind. 
105 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Ah!     Why  didn't  they  shoot  him?" 
"I've  just  said,  sir,  Andy  thought  it  was  the  chauf- 
feur." 

McGuire  was  pacing  the  floor  furiously. 
"He  has  no  business  to  think.     I  pay  him  to  act.    And 
you — what  did  you  do?" 

"Three  of  us  searched  the  whole  place — every  tree, 
every  bush — every  shadow .  The  man  has  gone." 

"Gone,"  sneered  the  other.    "A  H of  a  mess  you're 

making  of  this  job!" 

Peter  straightened  angrily,  but  managed  to  control 
himself. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said.  "Then  you'd  bet- 
ter get  somebody  else  at  once." 

He  had  never  given  notice  before  but  the  hackneyed 
phrase  fell  crisply  from  his  lips.  For  many  reasons, 
Peter  didn't  want  to  go,  but  he  bowed  and  walked 
quickly  across  the  room.  "Good-night,"  he  said. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  door  the  frightened  man 
came  stumbling  after  him  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"No,   no,    Nichols.      Come   back.      D'ye   hear?      You 

mustn't  be  so  d touchy.     Come  back.    You  can't  go. 

I  didn't  mean  anything.     Come  now!" 

Peter  paused,  his  hand  on  the  knob,  and  looked  down 
into  the  man's  flabby,  empurpled  countenance. 

"I  thought  you  meant  it,"  he  said. 

"No.  I— I  didn't.  I— I  like  you,  Nichols— liked  you 
from  the  very  first — yesterday.  Of  course  you  can't  be 
responsible  for  all  the  boneheads  here." 

Peter  had  "called  the  bluff."  Perhaps  the  lesson  might 
have  a  salutary  effect.  And  so,  as  his  good  humor  came 
back  to  him,  he  smiled  pleasantly. 

"You  see,  Mr.  McGuire,  you  could  hardly  expect  Andy 
to  shoot  the  chauffeur.     They're  on  excellent  terms." 
106 


MUSIC 


McGuire  had  settled  down  into  a  chair  near  the  table, 
and  motioned  Peter  to  another  one  near  him. 

"Sit  down,  Nichols.  Another  glass,  Stryker.  So.5* 
He  poured  the  whisky  with  an  assumption  of  ease  and 
they  drank. 

"You  see,  Nichols,"  he  went  on  as  he  set  his  empty 
glass  down,  "I  know  what  I'm  about.  There  is  somebody 
trying  to  get  at  me.  It's  no  dream — no  hallucination. 
You  know  that  too,  now.  I  saw  him — I  would  have  shot 
him  through  the  window — if  it  hadn't  been  for  Peggy 
— and  the  others — but  I — I  didn't  dare — for  reasons. 

She  mustn't  know "  And  then  eagerly,  "She  doesn't 

suspect  anything  yet,  does  she,  Nichols?" 

Peter  gestured  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of 
the  sounds  which  still  came  from  below. 

"No.     They're  having  a  good  time." 

"That's  all  right.  To-morrow  they'll  be  leaving  for 
New  York,  I  hope.  And  then  we'll  meet  this  issue  squarely. 
You  say  the  man  has  gone.  Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Isn't  it  reasonable  to  think  so?  His  visit  was  merely 
a  reconnoissance.  I  think  he  had  probably  been  lying 
out  in  the  underbrush  all  day,  getting  the  lay  of  the  land, 
watching  what  we  were  doing — seeing  where  the  men  were 
placed.  But  he  must  know  now  that  he'll  have  to  try 
something  else — that  he  hasn't  a  chance  of  getting  to  you 
past  these  guards,  if  you  don't  want  him  to." 

"But  he  nearly  succeeded  to-night,"  mumbled  McGuire 
dubiously. 

Peter  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I'm  not  supposed  to  question  and  I  won't.  But  it 
seems  to  me,  Mr.  McGuire,  that  if  this  visitor's  plan  were 
to  murder  you,  to  get  rid  of  you,  he  would  have  shot  you 
down  to-night,  through  the  window.  From  his  failure 
to  do  so,  there  is  one  definite  conclusion  to  draw — and 

that  is  that  he  wants  to  see  you — to  talk  with  you " 

107 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


McGuire  fairly  threw  himself  from  his  chair  as  he 
roared, 

"I  can't  see  him.  I  won't.  I  won't  see  anybody.  I've 
got  the  law  on  my  side.  A  man's  house  is  his  castle.  A 
fellow  prowls  around  here  in  the  dark.  He's  been  seen 
— if  he's  shot  it's  his  own  lookout.  And  he  will  be  shot 
before  he  reaches  me.  You  hear  me?,-  Your  men  must 
shoot— shoot  to  kill.  If  they  fail  I'll " 

He  shrugged  as  if  at  the  futility  of  his  own  words, 
which  came  stumbling  forth,  born  half  of  fear,  half  of 
braggadocio. 

Peter  regarded  him  soberly.  It  was  difficult  to  con- 
ceive of  this  man,  who  talked  like  a  madman  and  a  spoiled 
child,  as  the  silent,  stubborn,  friendless  millionaire,  as 
the  power  in  finance  that  Sheldon,  Senior,  had  described 
him  to  be.  The  love  of  making  money  had  succumbed  to 
a  more  primitive  passion  which  for  the  time  being  had 
mastered  him.  From  what  had  been  revealed,  it  seemed 
probable  that  it  was  not  death  or  bodily  injury  that  he 
feared,  for  Peter  had  seen  him  stand  up  at  the  window, 
a  fair  target  for  any  good  marksman,  but  an  interview 
with  this  nocturnal  visitor  who  seemed  bent  upon  bring- 
ing it  about.  Indeed,  the  childish  bravado  of  his  last 
speech  had  voiced  a  wish,  but  beneath  the  wish  Peter  had 
guessed  a  protest  against  the  inevitable. 

Peter  acknowledged  McGuire's  right  to  seclusion  in  his 
own  house,  but  he  found  himself  wondering  whether  death 
for  the  intruder  as  proposed  by  his  employer  were  a  jus- 
tifiable means  of  preserving  it,  especially  if  the  strange 
visitor  did  not  himself  use  violence  to  gain  his  ends.  And 
so,  when  McGuire  presently  poured  himself  another  glass 
of  whisky,  and  drank  it,  Peter  took  the  liberty  of  asking 
the  question. 

"I  am  ignorant  of  your  laws  in  this  country,  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire, but  doesn't  it  seem  that  short  of  forcible  entry 
108 


MUSIC 


of  this  house  we  would  hardly  be  justified  in  shooting  the 
man?" 

"I  take  the  responsibility  for  that." 

"I  understand.  But  what  I  was  going  to  propose  was 
a  hunt  through  the  woods  to-morrow.  A  description  of 
this  man  would  be  helpful.  For  instance,  whether  he 
was  smoothly  shaven  or  whether  he  had  a  beard — or — or 
a  mustache?" 

McGuire  scowled. 

"The  man  has  a  slight  growth  of  beard — of  mustache. 
But  what  difference  does  that  make?  No  one  has  a  right 
here — without  my  permission." 

Peter  sipped  at  his  glass.  As  he  had  suspected,  there 
were  two  of  them. 

"That's  true.  But  even  with  this,  we  can  move  with 
more  intelligence.  This  forest  is  your  property.  If  we 
find  any  person  who  can't  give  an  account  of  himself,  we 
could  take  him  into  custody  and  turn  him  over  to  the 
proper  authorities." 

"No.  No,"  cried  McGuire.  "And  have  him  set  loose 
after  a  trivial  examination?  Little  good  that  would  do. 
This  man  who  is  trying  to  reach  me " 

McGuire  stopped  suddenly,  glaring  at  his  superintend- 
ent with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  Peter  very  politely  waited 
for  him  to  go  on.  But  he  brought  his  empty  glass  down 
on  the  table  with  a  crash  which  shattered  it. 

"He  mustn't  reach  me,"  he  roared.  "I  won't  see  him. 
That's  understood.  He's  a  man  I'd  have  no  more  com- 
punction about  shooting  than " 

McGuire,  with  a  curious  suddenness,  stopped  again. 
Then  rose  and  resumed  his  habit  of  pacing  the  floor.  For 
a  moment  it  had  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were  on  the  point 
of  a  revelation.  But  the  mood  passed.  Instead  of  speak- 
ing further  he  threw  out  his  arms  in  a  wide  gesture. 

"I've  said  enough,"  he  growled,  "more  than  enough. 
109 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


You  know  your  duty."  And  he  gestured  toward  the  door. 
"Do  it!"  he  finished  brusquely. 

Peter  had  already  risen,  and  Stryker  unemotionally 
opened  the  door  for  him. 

"I'll  stay  on  duty  all  night,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said 
quietly.  "I'd  advise  you  to  turn  in  and  get  some  sleep. 
You  need  it." 

"Yes.  Yes,  I  will.  Thanks,  Nichols,"  said  McGuire, 
following  him  to  the  door  and  offering  a  flabby  hand. 
"Don't  mind  what  I've  said  to-night.  I  think  we  under- 
stand each  other.  Stryker  will  see  that  the  house  is 
locked  when  the  young  people  come  up.  Keep  your  men 
to  the  mark  and  take  no  chances." 

"Good-night." 

The  remainder  of  the  night,  as  Mrs.  Bergen  had  pre- 
dicted, proved  uneventful,  and  at  daylight  Peter  went  to 
his  cabin  and  tumbled  into  bed,  too  tired  to  think  fur- 
ther of  McGuire's  visitors — or  even  of  the  man  with 
the  black  mustache. 

The  next  day  he  lay  abed  luxuriously  for  a  while  after 
he  had  awakened,  but  no  amount  of  quiet  thinking  availed 
to  clarify  the  mystery.  There  were  two  men,  one  bearded, 
interested  in  watching  McGuire,  another  with  a  black 
mustache,  interested  in  Peter.  And  so,  after  wondering 
again  for  some  puzzling  moments  as  to  how  Mrs.  Ber- 
gen, the  housekeeper,  had  come  to  be  involved  in  Mc- 
Guire's fortunes,  he  gave  the  problem  up. 

Foreseeing  difficulties  over  breakfast  at  the  house,  he 
had  arranged  to  make  his  own  coffee  on  a  small  oil  stove 
which  happened  to  be  available,  and  so  Peter  set  the  pot 
on  to  boil  and  while  he  dressed  turned  over  in  his  mind 
the  possibilities  of  the  future.  It  seemed  quite  certain 
that  the  antagonism,  whatever  its  nature,  between  his  em- 
ployer and  the  prowling  stranger  must  come  to  an  issue 
of  some  sort  almost  at  once.  The  intruder,  if  he  were  the 
110  ' 


MUSIC 


sort  of  man  who  could  inspire  terror,  would  not  remain 
content  merely  to  prowl  fruitlessly  about  with  every 
danger  of  being  shot  for  his  pains,  and  McGuire  could 
hardly  remain  long  in  his  present  situation  without  a 
physical  or  mental  collapse. 

Why  hadn't  McGuire  taken  flight?  Why  indeed  had 
he  come  to  Black  Rock  House  when  it  seemed  that  he 
would  have  been  much  safer  amongst  the  crowds  of  the 
city,  where  he  could  fall  back  upon  the  protection  of  the 
police  and  their  courts  for  immunity  from  this  kind  of 
persecution? 

Pieced  together,  the  phrases  his  employer  had  let  slip 
suggested  the  thought  that  he  had  come  to  Black  Rock 
to  escape  publicity  in  anything  that  might  happen.  And 
McGuire's  insistence  upon  the  orders  that  the  guards 
should  shoot  to  kill  also  suggested,  rather  unpleasantly, 
the  thought  that  McGuire  knew  who  the  visitor  was  and 
earnestly  desired  his  death. 

But  Mrs.  Bergen  could  have  no  such  wish,  for,  unlike 
McGuire,  she  had  shown  a  reticence  in  her  fears,  as 
though  her  silence  had  been  intended  to  protect  rather 
than  to  accuse.  Beth  Cameron,  too,  was  in  some  way  un- 
consciously involved  in  the  adventure.  But  how?  He 
drank  his  coffee  and  ate  his  roll,  a  prey  to  a  very  lively 
curiosity.  Beth  interested  him.  And  if  Aunt  Tillie  Ber- 
gen, her  only  near  relative,  showed  signs  of  inquietude 
on  the  girl's  account,  the  mysterious  visitor  surely  had  it 
in  his  power  to  make  her  unhappy.  As  he  washed  up  the 
dishes  and  made  his  bed,  Peter  decided  that  he  would  find 
Beth  to-night  when  she  came  back  from  work  and  ask 
her  some  questions  about  her  Aunt  Tillie. 

Beth  Cameron  saved  him  that  trouble.  He  was  sitting 
at  the  piano,  awaiting  a  telephone  call  to  Black  Rock 
House,  where  he  was  to  have  a  conference  with  his  em- 
ployer on  the  forestry  situation.  He  was  so  deeply  ab- 
111 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


sorbed  in  his  music  that  he  was  unaware  of  the  figure  that 
had  stolen  through  the  underbrush  and  was  now  hidden 
just  outside  the  door.  It  was  Beth.  She  stood  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  lightly  touching  the  edge  of  the  door- 
jamb,  the  other  hand  at  her  breast,  while  she  listened, 
poised  lightly  as  though  for  flight.  But  a  playful  breeze 
twitched  at  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  flicking  it  out  into  the 
patch  of  sunlight  by  the  doorsill,  and  Peter  caught  the 
glint  of  white  from  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

The  music  ceased  suddenly  and  before  Beth  could  flee 
into  the  bushes  Peter  had  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

Now  that  she  was  discovered  she  made  no  effort  to 
escape  him. 

"I — I  was  listening,"  she  gasped. 

"Why,  Beth,"  he  exclaimed,  voicing  the  name  in  his 
thoughts.  "How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"I— I  don't  know.    Not  long." 

"Pm  so  glad." 

She  was  coloring  very  prettily. 

"You — you  told  me  you — you'd  play  for  me  some- 
time," she  said  demurely. 

"Of  course.  Won't  you  come  in?  It's  rather  a  mess 
here,  but " 

He  led  her  in,  glancing  at  her  gingham  dress,  a  little 
puzzled. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  farmeretting,"  he  said. 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  quit — yesterday." 

He  didn't  ask  the  reason.  He  was  really  enjoying  the 
sight  of  her.  Few  women  are  comely  in  the  morning 
hours,  which  have  a  merciless  way  of  exaggerating  minute 
imperfections.  Beth  hadn't  any  minute  imperfections  ex- 
cept her  freckles,  which  were  merely  Nature's  colorings 
upon  a  woodland  flower.  She  seemed  to  fill  the  cabin  with 
112 


MUSIC 


morning  fragrance,  like  a  bud  just  brought  in  from  the 
garden. 

"I'm  very  glad  you've  come,"  he  said  gallantly,  lead- 
ing her  over  to  the  double  window  where  there  was  a 
chintz-covered  seat.  "I've  wanted  very  much  to  talk  to 
you." 

She  followed  him  protestingly. 

"But  I  didn't  come  to  be  talked  to.  I  came  to  listen 
to  you  play." 

"You  always  arrive  in  the  midst  of  music,"  he  laughed. 
"I  played  you  in,  without  knowing  it.  That  was  an  El- 
fentanz " 

"What's  that?" 

"A  dance  of  the  Elves — the  fairies."  And  then,  with 
a  laugh,  "And  the  little  devils." 

"The  little  devils?    You  mean  me!" 

"Elf— fairy  and  devil  too— but  mostly  elf." 

"I'm  not  sure  I  like  that — but  I  do  like  the  music. 
Please  play  it  again." 

She  was  so  lovely  in  her  eagerness  that  he  couldn't  re- 
fuse, his  fingers  straying  from  the  dance  by  slow  transi- 
tions into  something  more  quiet,  the  "Romance"  of  Si- 
belius, and  then  after  that  into  a  gay  little  scherzo,  at 
the  end  of  which  he  turned  suddenly  to  find  her  flushed  and 
breathless,  regarding  him  in  a  kind  of  awe. 

"How  lovely!"  she  whispered.  "There  were  no  devils 
in  that." 

"No,  only  fairies." 

"Angels  too — but  somethin*  else — that  quiet  piece — 
like  the — the  memory  of  a — a — sorrow." 

"  'Romance,'  it's  called,"  he  explained  gently. 

"Oh !" 

"The  things  we  dream.  The  things  that  ought  to  be, 
but  aren't." 

She  took  a  deep  breath.  "Yes,  that's  it.  That's  what 
113 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


it  meant.  I  felt  it."  And  then,  as  though  with  a  sudden 
shyness  at  her  self-revelation,  she  glanced  about.  "What 
a  pretty  place !  I've  never  been  here  before." 

"How  did  you  find  your  way  ?" 

"Oh,  I  knew  where  the  cabin  was.  I  came  through  the 
woods  and  across  the  log- jam  below  the  pool.  Then  I 
heard  the  music.  I  didn't  think  you'd  mind." 

"Mind!  Oh,  I  say.  I  don't  know  when  I've  been  so 
pleased." 

"Are  you  really?    You  say  a  lot." 

"Didn't  I  play  it?" 

That  confused  her  a  little. 

"Oh!"  she  said  demurely. 

"And  now,  will  you  talk  to  me?" 

"Yes,  of  course.    But " 

"But  what ?" 

"I — I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  be  here." 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  kind  of — unusual." 

He  laughed.  "You  wouldn't  be  you,  if  you  weren't 
unusual." 

She  glanced  at  him  uneasily. 

"You  see,  I  don't  know  you  very  well." 

"You're  very  exclusive  in  Black  Rock !"  he  laughed. 

"I  guess  we  "have  to  be  exclusive  whether  we  want  to 
or  not,"  she  replied. 

"Don't  you  think  I'll  do?" 

"Maybe.  I  oughtn't  to  have  come,  but  I  just  couldn't 
keep  away." 

"I'm  glad  you  did.     I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"It  wasn't  that,"  she  put  in  hastily.  "I  had  to  hear 
you  play  again.  That's  what  I  mean." 

"I'll  play  for  you  whenever  you  like." 

"Will  you?  Then  play  again,  now.  It  makes  me  feel 
all  queer  inside." 

114 


MUSIC 


Peter  laughed.  "Do  you  feel  that  way  when  you 
sing?" 

"No.    It  all  comes  out  of  me  then." 

"Would  you  mind  singing  for  me,  Beth?"  he  asked  after 
a  moment. 

"I— I  don't  think  I  dare." 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  piano. 

"What  do  you  sing?" 

But  she  hadn't  moved  and  she  didn't  reply.  So  he 
urged  her. 

"In  the  woods  when  you're  coming  home ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know It  just  comes  out — things 

I've  heard — things  I  make  up " 

"What  have  you  heard?  I  don't  know  that  I  can 
accompany  you,  but  I'll  try." 

She  was  flushing  painfully.  He  could  see  that  she 
wanted  to  sing  for  him — to  be  a  part  of  this  wonderful 
dream-world  in  which  he  belonged,  and  yet  she  did  not 
dare. 

"What  have  you  heard?"  he  repeated  softly,  encour- 
aging her  by  running  his  fingers  slowly  over  the  simple 
chords  of  a  major  key. 

Suddenly  she  started  up  and  joined  him  by  the  piano. 

"That's  it — 'The  long,  long  trail  a-windin' "  and 

in  a  moment  was  singing  softly.  He  had  heard  the  air 
and  fell  in  with  her  almost  at  once. 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 
Into  the  land  of  my  dreams, 
Where  the  nightingale  is  singing 
And  a  bright  moon  beams " 

Like  the  good  musician  that  he  was,  Peter  submerged 

himself,  playing  gently,  his  gaze  on  his  fingers,  while  he 

listened.    He  had  made  no  mistake.    The  distances  across 

which  he  had  heard  her  had  not  flattered.    Her  voice  was 

115 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


untrained,  of  course,  but  it  seemed  to  Peter  that  it  had 
lost  nothing  by  the  neglect,  for  as  she  gained  confidence, 
she  forgot  Peter,  as  he  intended  that  she  should,  and 
sang  with  the  complete  abstraction  of  a  thrush  in  the 
deep  wood.  Like  the  thrush's  note,  too,  Beth's  was  limpid, 
clear,  and  sweet,  full  of  forest  sounds — the  falling  brook, 
the  sigh  of  night  winds.  .  .  . 

When  the  song  ended  he  told  her  so. 

"You  do  say  nice  things,  don't  you?"  she  said  joy- 
ously. 

"Wouldn't  you — if  it  cost  you  nothing  and  was  the 
truth?  You  must  have  your  voice  trained." 

"Must !  I  might  jump  over  the  moon  if  I  had  a  broom- 
stick." 

"It's  got  to  be  managed  somehow." 

"Then  you're  not  disappointed  in  the  way  it  sounds, 
close  up?" 

She  stood  beside  him,  leaning  against  the  piano,  her 
face  flushed,  her  breath  rapid,  searching  his  face  eagerly. 
Peter  knew  that  it  was  only  the  dormant  artist  in  her 
seeking  the  light,  but  he  thrilled  warmly  at  her  nearness, 
for  she  was  very  lovely.  Peter's  acquaintance  with  women 
had  been  varied,  but,  curiously  enough,  each  meeting  with 
this  girl  instead  of  detracting  had  only  added  to  her 
charm. 

"No.  I'm  not  disappointed  in  it,"  he  said  quite  calmly, 
every  impulse  in  him  urging  a  stronger  expression.  But 
he  owed  a  duty  to  himself.  Noblesse  oblige!  It  was  one 
of  the  mottoes  of  his  House — (not  always  followed — 
alas!).  With  a  more  experienced  woman  he  would  have 
said  what  was  in  his  mind.  He  would  probably  have 
taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  at  once,  for  that  was 
really  what  he  would  have  liked  to  do.  But  Beth.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  something  in  the  coolness  of  his  tone  discon- 
certed her,  for  she  turned  away  from  the  piano. 
116 


MUSIC 


"You're  very  kind,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  about  to  slip  away 
from  him,  so  he  got  up. 

"Won't  you  sing  again,  Beth?" 

But  she  shook  her  head.  For  some  reason  the  current 
that  had  run  between  them  was  broken.  As  she  moved 
toward  the  door,  he  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

"Don't  go  yet.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"I  don't  think  I  ought."  And  then,  with  a  whimsical 
smile,  "And  you  ought  to  be  out  makin'  the  trees  grow." 

He  laughed.    "There's  a  lot  of  time  for  that." 

She  let  him  lead  her  to  the  divan  again  and  sat,  her 
fingers  dovetailed  around  a  slender  knee. 

"I — I'm  sorry  I  made  fun  of  you  the  other  day,"  she 
confessed  immediately. 

"I  didn't  mind  in  the  least." 

"But  you  did  seem  to  know  it  all,"  she  said.  And  then 
smiled  in  the  direction  of  the  piano.  "Now — I'm  comin' 
to  think  you  do.  Even  Shad  says  you're  a  wonder.  I — 
I  don't  think  he  likes  you,  though "  she  admitted. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that." 

"Don't  you  care.  Shad  don't  like  anybody  but  himself 
and  Goda'mighty — with  God  trailin'  a  little." 

Peter  smiled.  Her  singing  voice  may  have  been  im- 
personal but  one  could  hardly  think  that  of  her  con- 
versation. 

"And  you,  Beth — where  do  you  come  in?" 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

"Oh,  I ,"  she  said  with  a  laugh,  "I  just  trail  along 

after  God." 

Her  irony  meant  no  irreverence  but  a  vast  derogation 
of  Shad  Wells.  Somehow  her  point  of  view  was  very 
illuminating. 

"I'm  afraid  you  make  him  very  unhappy,"  he  ventured. 

"That's  his  lookout,"  she  finished. 
117 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Peter  was  taking  a  great  delight  in  watching  her  pro- 
file, the  blue  eyes  shadowed  under  the  mass  of  her  hair, 
eyes  rather  deeply  set  and  thoughtful  in  repose,  the 
straight  nose,  the  rather  full  underlip  ending  in  a  pre- 
cipitous dent  above  her  chin.  He  liked  that  chin.  There 
was  courage  there  and  strength,  softened  at  once  by  the 
curve  of  the  throat,  flowing  to  where  it  joined  the  fine 
deep  breast.  Yesterday  she  had  seemed  like  a  boy.  To- 
day she  was  a  woman  grown,  feminine  in  every  graceful 
conformation,  on  tiptoe  at  the  very  verge  of  life. 

But  there  was  no  "flapper"  here.  What  she  lacked  in 
culture  was  made  up  in  refinement.  He  had  felt  that 
yesterday — the  day  before.  She  belonged  elsewhere.  And 
yet  to  Peter  it  would  have  seemed  a  pity  to  have  changed 
her  in  any  particular.  Her  lips  were  now  drawn  in  a 
firm  line  and  her  brows  bore  a  curious  frown. 

"You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  Beth,  do  you?" 

She  flashed  a  glance  at  him. 

"That's  what  everybody  calls  me." 

"My  name  is  Peter." 

"Yes,  I  know."    And  then,  "That's  funny." 

"Funny!" 

"You  look  as  if  your  name  ought  to  be  Algernon." 

"Why?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  the  name  of  a  man  in  a  book 
I  read — an  Englishman.  You're  English,  you  said." 

"Half  English,"  said  Peter. 

"What's  the  other  half?" 

"Russian."  He  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  lying  to  her, 
but  somehow  he  couldn't. 

"Russian!  I  thought  Russians  all  had  long  hair  and 
carried  bombs." 

"Some  of  'em  do.     I'm  not  that  kind.     The  half  of  me 
that's  English  is  the  biggest  half,  and  the  safest." 
118 


MUSIC 


"I'm  glad  of  that.  I'd  hate  to  think  of  you  as  bein'  a 
Bolshevik." 

«H-m.     So  would  I." 

"But  Russia's  where  you  get  your  music  from,  isn't  it? 
The  band  leader  at  Glassboro  is  a  Russian.  He  can  play 
every  instrument.  Did  you  learn  music  in  Russia?" 

Beth  was  now  treading  dangerous  ground  and  so  it 
was  time  to  turn  the  tables. 

"Yes,  a  little,"  he  said,  "but  music  has  no  nationality. 
Or  why  would  I  find  a  voice  like  yours  out  here?" 

"Twenty  miles  from  nowhere,"  she  added  scornfully. 

"How  did  you  come  here,  Beth?  Would  you  mind 
telling  me?  You  weren't  born  here,  were  you?  How  did 
you  happen  to  come  to  Black  Rock?" 

"Just  bad  luck,  I  guess.  Noboply'd  ever  come  to 
Black  Rock  just  because  they  want  to.  We  just  came. 
That's  all." 

"Just  you  and  Aunt  Tillie?  Is  your  father  dead?"  he 
asked. 

She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment  and  then  clasped  her 
knees  again. 

"I  don't  like  to  talk  about  family  matters." 

"Oh,  I " 

And  then,  gently,  she  added, 

"I  never  talk  about  them  to  any  one." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Peter,  aware  of  the  under- 
current of  sadness  in  her  voice.  "I  didn't  know  that 
there  was  anything  painful  to  you " 

"I  didn't  know  it  myself,  until  you  played  it  to  me, 
just  now,  the  piece  with  the  sad,  low  voices,  under  the 
melody.  It  was  like  somebody  dead  speakin'  to  me.  I 
can't  talk  about  the  things  I  feel  like  that." 

"Don't  then Forgive  me  for  asking." 

He  laid  his  fingers  softly  over  hers.  She  withdrew  her 
hand  quickly,  but  the  look  that  she  turned  him  found  his 
119 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


face  sober,  his  dark  eyes  warm  with  sympathy.  And 
then  with  a  swift  inconsequential  impulse  born  of  Peter's 
recantation, 

"I  don't  s'pose  there's  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell 
you,"  she  said  more  easily.  "Everybody  around  here 
knows  about  me — about  us.  Aunt  Tillie  and  I  haven't 
lived  here  always.  She  brought  me  here  when  I  was  a 
child." 

She  paused  again  and  Peter  remained  silent,  watching 
her  intently.  As  she  glanced  up  at  him,  something  in  the 
expression  of  his  face  gave  her  courage  to  go  on. 

"Father's  dead.  His  name  was  Ben  Cameron.  He 
came  of  nice  people,"  she  faltered.  "But  he — he  was  no 
good.  We  lived  up  near  New  Lisbon.  He  used  to  get 
drunk  on  'Jersey  Lightnin' '  and  tear  loose.  He  was  all 
right  between  whiles — farmin' — but  whisky  made  him 
crazy,  and  then — then  he  would  come  home  and  beat  us 
up." 

"Horrible !" 

"It  was.  I  was  too  little  to  know  much,  but  Aunt  Til- 
lie's  husband  came  at  last  and  there  was  a  terrible  fight. 
Uncle  Will  was  hurt — hurt  so  bad — cut  with  a  knife — • 
that  he  never  was  the  same  again.  And  my — my  father 
went  away  cursing1  us  all.  Then  my  mother  died — 
Uncle  Will  too — and  Aunt  Tillie  and  I  came  down  here 
to  live.  That's  all.  Not  much  to  be  proud  of,"  she 
finished  ruefully. 

Peter  was  silent.  It  was  a  harrowing,  sordid  story  of 
primitive  passion.  He  was  very  sorry  for  her. 

Beth  made  an  abrupt  graceful  movement  of  an  arm 
across  her  brows,  as  though  to  wipe  out  the  memory. 

"I  don't  know  why  I've  told  you,"  she  said.  "I  never 
speak  of  this  to  any  one." 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

He  meant  it.    And  Beth  knew  that  he  did. 
120 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PLACARD 

THE  look  that  she  had  given  him  showed  her  sense 
of  his  sympathy.     So  he  ventured, 

"Did   you    hear   from    your   father   before    he 
died?" 

"Aunt  Tillie  did, — once.  Then  we  got  word  he'd  been 
killed  in  a  railway  accident  out  West.  I  was  glad.  A 
man  like  that  has  no  right  to  live.'* 

"You  and  Aunt  Tillie  have  had  a  pretty  hard 
time "  he  mused. 

"Yes.  She's  an  angel — and  I  love  her.  Why  is  it 
that  good  people  have  nothin'  but  trouble?  She  had  an 
uncle  who  went  bad  too — he  was  younger  than  she  was — 
my  great-uncle — Jack  Bray — he  forged  a  check — or 
somethin'  up  in  Newark — and  went  to  the  penitentiary." 

"And  is  he  dead  too?" 

"No — not  at  last  accounts.  He's  out — somewhere. 
When  I  was  little  he  used  to  come  to  Aunt  Tillie  for 
money — a  tall,  lantern- j  awed  man.  I  saw  him  once 
three  years  ago.  He  was  here.  Aunt  Tillie  tried  to  keep 
me  out  of  the  kitchen.  But  I  thought  he  was  up  to  some 
funny  business  and  stayed.  He  took  a  fancy  to  me.  He 
said  he  was  camera  man  in  the  movies.  He  wanted  me  to 
go  with  him — thought  I  could  be  as  good  as  Mary  Pick- 
ford.  I'm  glad  I  didn't  go — from  what  I  know  now.  He 
was  a  bad  man.  Aunt  Tillie  was  scared  of  him.  Poor 
soul!  She  gave  him  all  she  had — most  of  what  was  left 
from  the  old  farm,  I  guess." 
121 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Do  you  think "  began  Peter,  then  paused.  And 

as  she  glanced  at  him  inquiringly,  "Did  you  notice  that 
vour  Aunt  Tillie  seemed — er — frightened  last  night?"  he 
asked  at  last. 

"I  thought  so  for  a  while,  but  she  said  she  was  only 
sick.  She  never  lies  to  me." 

"She  seemed  very  much  disturbed." 

"Her  nerve's  not  what  it  used  to  be — especially  since 
Mr.  McGuire's  taken  to  seein'  things " 

"You  don't  believe  then  that  she  could  have  seen  John 
Bray — that  he  had  come  back  again  last  night?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  Beth,  turning  in  surprise.  "I  never 
thought  of  it — and  yet,"  she  paused,  "yes, — it  might  have 
been " 

She  became  more  thoughtful  but  didn't  go  on.  Peter 
was  on  the  trail  of  a  clew  to  the  mystery,  but  she  had 
already  told  him  so  much  that  further  questions  seemed 
like  personal  intrusion.  And  so, 

"I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Beth,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  your 
friend  and  Mrs.  Bergen's.  If  anything  should  turn  up 
to  make  you  unhappy  or  to  make  your  aunt  unhappy 
and  I  can  help  you,  won't  you  let  me  know?" 

"Why — do  you  think  anything  is  goin*  to  happen?" 
she  asked. 

His  reply  was  noncommittal. 

"I  just  wanted  you  to  know  you  could  count  on 

me "  he  said  soberly.  "I  think  you've  had  trouble 

enough." 

"But  I'm  not  afraid  of  Jack  Bray,"  she  said  with  a 
shrug,  "even  if  Aunt  Tillie  is.  He  can't  do  anything  to 
me.  He  can't  make  me  go  to  New  York  if  I  don't  want 
to." 

She  had  clenched  her  brown  fists  in  her  excitement  and 
Eeter  laughed. 

"I  think  I'd  be  a  little  sorry  for  anybody  who  tried  to 


THE  PLACARD 


make  you  do  anything  you  didn't  want  to  do,"  he  said. 

She  frowned.  "Why,  if  I  thought  that  bandy-legged, 
lantern- jawed,  old  buzzard  was  comin'  around  here  fright- 
enin'  Aunt  Tillie,  I'd— I'd " 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"Never  you  mind  what  I'd  do.  But  I'm  not  afraid  of 
Jack  Bray,"  she  finished  confidently. 

The  terrors  that  had  been  built  up  around  the  house 
of  McGuire,  the  mystery  surrounding  the  awe-inspiring 
prowler,  the  night  vigils,  the  secrecy — all  seemed  to  fade 
into  a  piece  of  hobbledehoy  buffoonery  at  Beth's  con- 
temptuous description  of  her  recreant  relative.  And  he 
smiled  at  her  amusedly. 

"But  what  would  you  say,"  he  asked  seriously,  "if  I 
told  you  that  last  night  Mr.  McGuire  saw  the  same  per- 
son your  Aunt  Tillie  did,  and  that  he  was  terrified — al- 
most to  the  verge  of  collapse?" 

Beth  had  risen,  her  eyes  wide  with  incredulity. 

"Merciful  Father!  McGuire!  Did  he  have  another 
spell  last  night?  You  don't  mean ?" 

"I  went  up  to  his  room.  He  was  done  for.  He  had 
seen  outside  the  drawing-room  window  the  face  of  the 
very  man  he's  been  guarding  himself  against." 

"I  can't  believe ,"  she  gasped.     "And  you  think 

Aunt  Tillie -?" 

"Your  Aunt  Tillie  talked  to  a  man  outside  the  door  of 
the  kitchen.  You  didn't  hear  her.  I  did.  The  same 
man  who  had  been  frightening  Mr.  McGuire." 

"Aunt  Tillie!"  she  said  in  astonishment.    * 

"There's  not  a  doubt  of  it.  McGuire  saw  him.  Andy 
saw  him  too, — thought  he  was  the  chauffeur." 

Beth's  excitement  was  growing  with  the  moments. 

"Why,  Aunt  Tillie  didn't  know  anything  about  what 
was  frightening  Mr.  McGuire — no  more'n  I  did,"  she 
gasped. 

123 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"She  knows  now.  She  wasn't  sick  last  night,  Beth. 
She  was  just  bewildered — frightened  half  out  of  her 
wits.  I  spoke  to  her  after  you  went  home.  She  wouldn't 
say  a  word.  She  was  trying  to  conceal  something.  But 
there  was  a  man  outside  and  she  knows  who  he  is." 

"But  what  could  Jack  Bray  have  to  do  with  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire?"  she  asked  in  bewilderment. 

Peter  shrugged.  "You  know  as  much  as  I  do.  I 
wouldn't  have  told  you  this  if  you'd  been  afraid.  But 
Mrs.  Bergen  is." 

"Well,  did  you  ever?" 

"No,  I  never  did,"  replied  Peter,  smiling. 

"It  does  beat  anything." 

"It  does.  It's  most  interesting,  but  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  hardly  alarming  for  you,  whatever  it  may  be  to  Mr. 
McGuire  or  Mrs.  Bergen.  If  the  man  is  only  your  great- 
uncle,  there  ought  to  be  a  way  to  deal  with  him " 

"I've  just  got  to  talk  to  Aunt  Tillie,"  Beth  broke  in, 
moving  toward  the  door.  Peter  followed  her,  taking  up 
his  hat. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said. 

For  a  few  moments  Beth  said  nothing.  She  had  passed 
through  the  stages  of  surprise,  anger  and  bewilderment, 
and  was  now  still  indignant  but  quite  self-contained. 
When  he  thought  of  Beth's  description  of  the  Ghost  of 
Black  Rock  House,  Peter  was  almost  tempted  to  forget 
the  terrors  of  the  redoubtable  McGuire.  A  man  of  his 
type  hardly  lapses  into  hysteria  at  the  mere  thought 
of  a  "bandy-legged  buzzard."  And  yet  McGuire's  terrors 
had  been  so  real  and  were  still  so  real  that  it  was  hardly 
conceivable  that  Bray  could  have  been  the  cause  of  them. 
Indeed  it  was  hardly  conceivable  that  the  person  Beth  de- 
scribed could  be  a  source  of  terror  to  any  one.  What 
was  the  answer? 

"Aunt  Tillie  doesn't  know  anything  about  McGuire," 


THE  PLACARD 


Beth  said  suddenly.  "She  just  couldn't  know.  She  tells 
me  everything." 

"But  of  course  it's  possible  that  McGuire  and  this 
John  Bray  could  have  met  in  New  York " 

"What  would  Mr.  McGuire  be  doin'  with  Urn?"  she 
said  scornfully. 

Peter  laughed. 

"It's  what  he's  doing  with  McGuire  that  matters." 

"I  don't  believe  it's  Bray,"  said  Beth  confidently.  "I 
don't  believe  it." 

They  had  reached  a  spot  where  the  underbrush  was 
thin,  and  Beth,  who  had  been  looking  past  the  tree  trunks 
toward  the  beginnings  of  the  lawns,  stopped  suddenly,  her 
eyes  focusing  upon  some  object  closer  at  hand. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked,  pointing. 

Peter  followed  the  direction  of  her  gaze.  On  a  tree  in 
the  woods  not  far  from  the  path  was  a  square  of  card- 
board, but  Beth's  eyes  were  keener  than  Peter's,  and  she 
called  his  attention  to  some  writing  upon  it. 

They  approached  curiously.  With  ironic  impudence 
the  message  was  scrawled  in  red  crayon  upon  the  reverse 
of  one  of  Jonathan  McGuire's  neat  trespass  signs,  and 
nailed  to  the  tree  by  an  old  hasp-knife.  Side  by  side,  and 
intensely  interested,  they  read: 

TO  MIKE  McGUIRE 

I*VE  COME  BACK. 

YOU  KNOW  WHAT  I'VE  GOT  AND  I  KNOW  WHAT 

YOU'VE  GOT.     ACT  PRONTO.     I'LL  COME  FOE  MY 
ANSWER    AT    ELEVEN    FRIDAY    NIGHT AT    THIS 

TREE.       No    TRICKS.       IF    THERE*S    NO    ANSWER 

YOU  KNOW  WHAT  I5LL  DO. 

HAWK. 

"Hawk!"  muttered  Beth,  "who  on  earth ?" 

125 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Another ,"  said  Peter  cryptically. 

"You  see !"  cried  Beth  triumphantly,  "I  knew  it  couldn't 
be  Jack  Bray !" 

"This  chap  seems  to  be  rather  in  earnest,  doesn't  he? 
Pronto!  That  means  haste." 

"But  it's  only  a  joke.    It  must  be,"  cried  Beth. 

Peter  loosened  the  knife,  took  the  placard  down  and 
turned  it  over,  examining  it  critically. 

"I  wonder."  And  then,  thoughtfully,  "No,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  is.  It's  addressed  to  McGuire.  I'm  going  to  take 
it  to  him." 

"Mike  McGuire,"  corrected  Beth.  And  then,  "But  it 
really  does  look  queer." 

"It  does,"  assented  Peter;  "it  appears  to  me  as  if  this 
message  must  have  come  from  the  person  McGuire  saw 
last  night." 

Beth  looked  bewildered. 

"But  what  has  Aunt  Tillie  got  to  do  with — with  Hawk? 
She  never  knew  anybody  of  that  name." 

"Probably  not.     It  isn't  a  real  name,  of  course." 

"Then  why  should  it  frighten  Mr.  McGuire?"  she  asked 
logically. 

Peter  shook  his  head.  All  the  props  had  fallen  from 
under  his  theories. 

"Whether  it's  real  to  McGuire  or  not  is  what  I  want 
to  know.  And  I'm  going  to  find  out,"  he  finished. 

When  they  reached  a  path  which  cut  through  the  trees 
toward  the  creek,  Beth  stopped,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  not  goin'  up  to  the  house  with  you  and  I  don't 
think  I'll  see  Aunt  Tillie  just  now,"  she  said.  "Good-by, 
Mr. " 

"Peter ,"  he  put  in. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Peter." 

"Just  Peter "  he  insisted. 

126 


THE  PLACARD 


"Good-by,  Mr.  Just  Peter.  Thanks  for  the  playin'. 
Will  you  let  me  come  again  ?" 

"Yes.     And  Fm  going  to  get  you  some  music " 

"Singin'  music?"  she  gasped. 

He  nodded. 

"And  you'll  let  me  know  if  I  can  help — Aunt  Tillie  or 
you?" 

She  bobbed  her  head  and  was  gone. 

Peter  stood  for  a  while  watching  the  path  down  which 
she  had  disappeared,  wondering  at  her  abrupt  departure, 
which  for  the  moment  drove  from  his  mind  all  thought  of 
McGuire's  troubles.  It  was  difficult  to  associate  Beth 
with  the  idea  of  prudery  or  affectation.  Her  visit  proved 
that.  She  had  come  to  the  Cabin  because  she  had  wanted 
to  hear  him  play,  because  she  had  wanted  to  sing  for  him, 
because  too  his  promises  had  excited  her  curiosity  about 
him,  and  inspired  a  hope  of  his  assistance.  But  the  visit 
had  flattered  Peter.  He  wasn't  inured  to  this  sort  of- 
frankness.  It  was  perhaps  the  greatest  single  gift  of 
tribute  and  confidence  that  had  ever  been  paid  him — at 
least  by  a  woman.  A  visit  of  this  sort  from  a  person  like 
Anastasie  Galitzin  or  indeed  from  almost  any  woman  in 
the  world  of  forms  and  precedents  in  which  he  had  lived 
would  have  been  equivalent  to  unconditional  surrender. 

The  girl  had  not  stopped  to  question  the  propriety  of 
her  actions.  That  the  Cabin  was  Peter's  bedroom,  that 
she  had  only  seen  him  twice,  that  he  might  not  have  under- 
stood the  headlong  impulse  that  brought  her,  had  never 
occurred  to  Beth.  The  self-consciousness  of  the  first  few 
moments  had  been  wafted  away  on  the  melody  of  the  music 
he  had  played^  and  after  that  he  knew  they  were  to  be 
friends.  There  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  in  Peter's  mind 
that  she  could  have  thought  they  would  be  anything  else. 

And  Peter  was  sure  that  he  had  hardly  been  able,  even 
if  he  had  wished,  to  conceal  his  warm  admiration  for  her 
127 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


physical  beauty.  She  had  been  very  near  him.  All  he 
would  have  had  to  do  was  to  reach  out  and  take  her.  That 
he  hadn't  done  so  seemed  rather  curious  now.  And  yet  he 
experienced  a  sort  of  mild  satisfaction  that  he  had  re- 
sisted so  trying  a  temptation.  If  she  hadn't  been  so  sure 
of  him.  .  .  .  Idealism?  Perhaps.  The  same  sort 
of  idealism  that  had  made  Peter  believe  the  people  at 
Zukovo  were  fine  enough  to  make  it  worth  while  risking 
his  life  for  them — that  had  made  him  think  that  the 
people  of  Russia  could  emerge  above  Russia  herself.  He 
had  no  illusions  as  to  Zukovo  now,  but  Beth  was  a  child — 
and  one  is  always  gentle  with  children. 

He  puzzled  for  another  moment  over  her  decision  not 
to  be  seen  coming  with  him  from  the  Cabin.  Had  this 
sophistication  come  as  an  afterthought,  born  of  some- 
thing that  had  passed  between  them?  Or  was  it  merely 
a  feminine  instinct  seeking  expression?  Peter  didn't  care 
who  knew  or  saw,  because  he  really  liked  Beth  amazingly. 
She  had  a  gorgeous  voice.  He  would  have  to  develop  it. 
He  really  would. 

All  the  while  Peter  was  turning  over  in  his  fingers  the 
placard  bearing  the  strange  message  to  "Mike"  McGuire 
from  the  mysterious  "Hawk."  He  read  and  reread  it, 
each  time  finding  a  new  meaning  in  its  wording.  Black- 
mail? Probably.  The  "pronto"  was  significant.  This  mes- 
sage could  hardly  have  come  from  Beth's  "bandy-legged 
buzzard."  He  knew  little  of  movie  camera  men,  but  imag- 
ined them  rather  given  to  the  depiction  of  villainies  than 
the  accomplishment  of  them.  And  a  coward  who  would 
prey  upon  an  old  woman  and  a  child  could  hardly  be  of 
the  metal  to  attempt  such  big  game  as  McGuire.  The 
mystery  deepened.  The  buzzard  was  now  a  hawk. 
"Hawk,"  whatever  his  real  name,  was  the  man  McGuire 
had  seen  last  night  through  the  window.  Was  he  also 
the  man  who  had  frightened  Mrs.  Bergen?  And  if  so, 
138 


THE  PLACARD 


how  and  where  had  she  known  him  without  Beth's  being 
aware  of  it?  And  why  should  Beth  be  involved  in  the 
danger? 

Peter  was  slowly  coming  to  the  belief  that  there  had 
been  two  men  outside  the  house  last  night,  "Hawk"  and 
John  Bray.  And  yet  it  seemed  scarcely  possible  that  the 
men  on  guard  should  not  have  seen  the  second  man  and 
that  both  men  could  have  gotten  away  without  leaving  a 
trace.  And  where  was  the  man  with  the  black  mustache? 
Was  he  John  Bray?  Impossible.  It  was  all  very  per- 
plexing. But  here  in  his  hand  he  held  the  tangible  evi- 
dence of  McGuire's  fears.  "You  know  what  I've  got  and 
I  know  what  you've  got."  The  sentence  seemed  to  have 
a  cabalistic  significance — a  pact — a  threat  which  each 
man  held  over  the  other.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  money  only 
that  "Hawk"  wanted.  Whatever  it  was,  he  meant  to 
have  it,  and  soon.  The  answer  the  man  expected  was  ap- 
parently something  well  understood  between  himself  and 
McGuire,  better  understood  perhaps  since  the  day  Mc- 
Guire  had  seen  him  in  New  York  and  had  fled  in  terror 
to  Sheldon,  Senior's,  office.  And  if  McGuire  didn't  send 
the  desired  answer  to  the  tree  by  Friday  night,  there 
would  be  the  very  devil  to  pay — if  not  "Hawk." 

Peter  was  to  be  the  bearer  of  ill  tidings  and  with  them, 
he  knew,  all  prospect  of  a  business  discussion  would  van- 
ish. The  situation  interested  him,  as  all  things  myste- 
rious must,  and  he  could  not  forget  that  he  was,  for  the 
present,  part  policeman,  part  detective;  but  forestry  was 
his  real  job  here  and  every  day  that  passed  meant  so 
many  fewer  days  in  which  to  build  the  fire  towers.  And 
these  he  considered  to  be  a  prime  necessity  to  the  security 
of  the  estate. 

He  rolled  the  placard  up  and  went  toward  the  house. 
On  the  lawn  he  passed  the  young  people,  intent  upon  their 
own  pursuits.  He  was  glad  that  none  of  them  noticed 
129 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


him  and  meeting  Stryker,  who  was  hovering  around  the 
lower  hall,  he  sent  his  name  up  to  his  employer. 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  McGuire  expects  you  just  yet,  sir," 
said  the  man. 

"Nevertheless,  tell  him  I  must  see  him,"  said  Peter. 
"It's  important." 

Though  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock,  McGuire  was  not 
yet  dressed  and  his  looks  when  Peter  was  admitted  to 
him  bespoke  a  long  night  of  anxiety  and  vigil.  Wearing 
an  incongruous  flowered  dressing  gown  tied  at  the  waist 
with  a  silken  cord,  he  turned  to  the  visitor. 

"Well,"  he  said  rather  peevishly. 

"I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mr.  McGuire,  but  something 
has  happened  that  I  thought " 

"What's  happened?"  the  other  man  snapped  out,  eying 

the  roll  of  cardboard  in  Peter's  hand.  "What ?" 

he  gasped. 

Peter  smiled  and  shrugged  coolly. 

"It  may  be  only  a  joke,  sir — and  I  hardly  know 
whether  I'm  even  justified  in  calling  it  to  your  attention, 
but  I  found  this  placard  nailed  to  a  tree  near  the  path 
to  the  Cabin." 

"Placard!"  said  McGuire,  his  sharp  glance  noting  the 
printing  of  the  trespass  sign.  "Of  course — that's  the 
usual  warning " 

"It's  the  other  side,"  said  Peter,  "that  is  unusual." 
And  unrolling  it  carefully,  he  laid  it  flat  on  the  table 
beside  his  employer's  breakfast  tray  and  then  stood  back 
to  note  the  effect  of  the  disclosure. 

McGuire  stared  at  the  headline,  starting  violently,  and 
then,  as  though  fascinated,  read  the  scrawl  through  to 
the  end.  Peter  could  not  see  his  face,  but  the  back  of  his 
neck,  the  ragged  fringe  of  moist  hair  around  his  bald 
spot  were  eloquent  enough.  And  the  hands  which  held 
the  extraordinary  document  were  far  from  steady.  The 
130 


THE  PLACARD 


gay  flowers  of  the  dressing  gown  mocked  the  pitiable 
figure  it  concealed,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  sag  into  its 
chair.  Peter  waited.  For  a  long  while  the  dressing  gown 
was  dumb  and  then  as  though  its  occupant  were  slowly 
awakening  to  the  thought  that  something  was  required 
of  him  it  stirred  and  turned  slowly  in  the  chair. 

"You — you've  read  this?"  asked  McGuire  weakly. 

"Yes,  sir.  It  was  there  to  read.  It  was  merely  stuck 
on  a  tree  with  this  hasp-knife,"  and  Peter  produced  the 
implement  and  handed  it  to  McGuire. 

McGuire  took  the  knife — twisting  it  slowly  over  in  his 
fingers.  "A  hasp-knife,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"I  thought  it  best  to  bring  them  to  you,"  said  Peter, 
"especially  on  account  of " 

"Yes,  yes.  Of  course."  He  was  staring  at  the  red 
crayon  scrawl  and  as  he  said  nothing  more  Peter  turned 
toward  the  door,  where  Stryker  stood  on  guard. 

"If  there's  nothing  else  just  now,  I'll " 

"Wait!"  uttered  the  old  man,  and  Peter  paused.  And 
then,  "Did  any  one  else  see  this — this  paper?" 

"Yes — Mrs.  Bergen 's  niece — she  saw  it  first." 

"My  housekeeper's  niece.     Any  one  else?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  hardly  think  so.  It  seemed  quite 
freshly  written." 

"Ah "  muttered  McGuire.     He  was  now  regarding 

Peter  intently.  "Where — where  is  the  tree  on  which  you 
found  it?" 

"A  maple — just  in  the  wood — at  the  foot  of  the  lawn." 

"Ah!"  He  stumbled  to  the  window,  the  placard  still 
clutched  in  his  hands,  and  peered  at  the  woods  as  though 
seeking  to  pick  out  the  single  tree  marked  for  his  ex- 
acerbation. Then  jerked  himself  around  and  faced  the 
bearer  of  these  tidings,  glaring  at  him  as  though  he  were 
the  author  of  them. 

you  all !"  he  swore  in  a  stifled  tone. 
131 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Peter  with  sharp  politeness. 

McGuire  glanced  at  Peter  and  fell  heavily  into  the 
nearest  armchair.  "It  can't — be  done,"  he  muttered,  half 
to  himself,  and  then  another  oath.  He  was  showing  his 
early  breeding  now. 

"I  might  'a'  known ,"  he  said  aloud,  staring  at  the 

paper. 

"Then  it  isn't  a  joke?"  asked  Peter,  risking  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Joke!"  roared  McGuire.  And  then  more  quietly,  "A 
joke?  I  don't  want  it  talked  about,"  he  muttered  with  a 
senile  smile.  And  then,  "You  say  a  woman  read  it?" 

"Yes." 

"She  must  be  kept  quiet.  I  can't  have  all  the  neighbor- 
hood into  my  affairs." 

"I  think  that  can  be  managed.  I'll  speak  to  her.  In 
the  meanwhile  if  there's  anything  I  can  do " 

McGuire  looked  up  at  Peter  and  their  glances  met. 
McGuire's  glance  wavered  and  then  came  back  to  Peter's 
face.  What  he  found  there  seemed  to  satisfy  him  for  he 
turned  to  Stryker,  who  had  been  listening  intently. 

"You  may  go,  Stryker,"  he  commanded.  "Shut  the 
door,  but  stay  within  call." 

The  valet's  face  showed  surprise  and  some  disappoint- 
ment, but  he  merely  bowed  his  head  and  obeyed. 

"I  suppose  you're — you're  curious  about  this  message, 
Nichols — coming  in  such  a  way,"  said  McGuire,  after  a 
pause. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  am,  sir,"  replied  Peter.  "We've 
done  all  we  could  to  protect  you.  This  'Hawk'  must  be 
the  devil  himself." 

"He  is,"  repeated  McGuire.  "Hell's  breed.  The  thing 
can't  go  on.  I've  got  to  put  a  stop  to  it — and  to  him." 

"He  speaks  of  coming  again  Friday  night " 

"Yes — yes — Friday."    And  then,  his  fingers  trembling 


THE  PLACARD 


along  the  placard,  "I've  got  to  do  what  he  wants — this 
time — just  this  time " 

McGuire  was  gasping  out  the  phrases  as  though  each 
of  them  was  wrenched  from  his  throat.  And  then,  with 
an  effort  at  self-control, 

"Sit  down,  Nichols,"  he  muttered.  "Since  you've  seen 
this,  I — I'll  have  to  tell  you  more.  I — I  think — I'll  need 
you — to  help  me." 

Peter  obeyed,  flattered  by  his  employer's  manner  and 
curious  as  to  the  imminent  revelations. 

"I  may  say  that — this — this  'Hawk'  is  a — an  enemy  of 
mine,  Nichols — a  bitter  enemy — unscrupulous — a  man 
better  dead  than  alive.  I — I  wish  to  God  you'd  shot  him 
last  night." 

"Sorry,  sir,"  said  Peter  cheerfully. 

"I — I've  got  to  do  what  he  wants — this  time.  I  can't 
have  this  sort  of  thing  goin'  on — with  everybody  in  Black 
Rock  reading  these  damn  things.  You're  sure  my  daugh- 
ter Peggy  knows  nothing?" 

"I'd  be  pretty  sure  of  that " 

"But  she  might — any  time — if  he  puts  up  more  plac- 
ards. I've  got  to  stop  that,  Nichols.  This  thing  mustn't 
go  any  further." 

"I  think  you  may  trust  me." 

"Yes.  I  think  I  can.  I've  got  to  trust  you  now,  whether 
I  want  to  or  no.  The  man  who  wrote  this  scrawl  is  the 
man  I  came  down  here  to  get  away  from."  Peter  waited 
while  McGuire  paused.  "You  may  think  it's  very  strange. 
It  is  strange.  I  knew  this  man — called  'Hawk,'  many 
years  ago.  I — I  thought  he  was  dead,  but  he's  come 
back." 

McGuire  paused  again,  the  placard  in  his  hands,  read- 
ing the  line  which  so  clearly  announced  that  fact. 

"He  speaks  of  something  I've  got — something  he's  got, 
Nichols.  It's  a  paper — a — er — a  partnership  paper  we 
133 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


drew  up  years  ago — out  West  and  signed.  That  paper 

is  of  great  value  to  me.  As  long  as  he  holds  it  I ," 

McGuire  halted  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  pallid  brow. 
"He  holds  it  as  a — well — not  exactly  as  a  threat — but  as 
a  kind  of  menace  to  my  happiness  and  Peggy's." 

"I  understand,  sir,"  put  in  Peter  quietly.  "Blackmail, 
in  short." 

"Exactly — er — blackmail.  He  wanted  five  thousand 
dollars — in  New  York.  I  refused  him — there's  no  end  to 
blackmail  once  you  yield — and  I  came  down  here — but 
he  followed  me.  But  I've  got  to  get  that  paper  away 
from  him." 

"If  you  were  sure  he  had  it  with  him " 

"That's  just  it.  He's  too  smart  for  that.  He's  got  it 
hidden  somewhere.  I've  got  to  get  this  money  for  him 
— from  New  York — I  haven't  got  it  in  the  house — before 
Friday  night " 

"But  blackmail !" 

"I've  got  to,  Nichols — this  time.    I've  got  to." 

"I  wouldn't,  sir,"  said  Peter  stoutly. 

"But  you  don't  know  everything.  I've  only  told  you 
part,"  said  McGuire,  almost  whining.  "This  is  no  ordi- 
nary case — no  ordinary  blackmail.  I've  got  to  be  quick. 
I'm  going  to  get  the  money — I'm  going  to  get  you  to  go 
to  New  York  and  get  it." 

"Me!" 

"Yes.  Yes.  This  is  Wednesday.  I  can't  take  any 
chances  of  not  having  it  here  Friday.  Peggy  is  going 
back  this  afternoon.  I'll  get  her  to  drive  you  up.  I'll 
'phone  Sheldon  to  expect  you — he'll  give  you  the  money 
and  you  can  come  back  to-morrow." 

"But  to-night " 

"He  knows  the  danger  of  trying  to  reach  me.  That's 
why  he  wrote  this.  I  won't  be  bothered  to-night.  I'll 
134 


THE  PLACARD 


shut  the  house  tight  and  put  some  of  the  men  inside.  If 
he  comes,  we'll  shoot." 

"But  Friday —  -  Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  you'll  go  out 
to  him  with  five  thousand  dollars  and  risk " 

"No,  I  won't.  You  will,'*  said  McGuire,  watching 
Peter's  face  craftily. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  replied  Peter,  aware  that  he  was  being 
drawn  more  deeply  into  the  plot  than  he  had  wished. 
"You  want  me  to  meet  him." 

McGuire  noted  Peter's  dubious  tone  and  at  once  got 
up  and  laid  his  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"You'll  do  this  for  me,  won't  you,  Nichols?  I  don't 
want  to  see  this  man.  I  can't  explain.  There  wouldn't 
be  any  danger.  He  hasn't  anything  against  you.  Why 
should  he  have?  I  haven't  any  one  else  that  I  can  trust — 
but  Stryker.  And  Stryker— well— I'd  have  to  tell 
Stryker.  You  know  already.  Don't  say  you  refuse.  It's 
— it's  a  proof  of  my  confidence.  You're  just  the  man  I 
want  here.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while  to  stay  with  me 
— well  worth  your  while." 

Peter  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  partly  of  pity,  partly 
of  contempt,  for  the  cringing  creature  pawing  at  his 
shoulders.  Peter  had  never  liked  to  be  pawed.  It  had 
always  rubbed  him  the  wrong  way.  But  McGuire's  need 
was  great  and  pity  won. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it  if  you  like,"  he  said,  turning  aside  and 
releasing  himself  from  the  clinging  fingers,  "provided  I 
assume  no  responsibility " 

"That's  it.  No  responsibility,"  said  McGuire,  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  "You'll  just  take  that  money  out — then  come 
away " 

"And  get  nothing  in  return?"  asked  Peter  in  surprise. 
"No  paper — no  receipt ?" 

"No — just  this  once,  Nichols.  It  will  keep  him  quiet 

for  a  month  or  so.  In  the  meanwhile "  The  old  man 

135 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


paused,  a  crafty  look  in  his  eyes,  "In  the  meanwhile  we'll 
have  time  to  devise  a  way  to  meet  this  situation." 

"Meaning — precisely  what?"  asked  Peter  keenly. 

McGuire  scowled  at  him  and  then  turned  away  toward 
the  window. 

"That  needn't  be  your  affair." 

"It  won't  be,"  said  Peter  quickly.  "I'd  like  you  to  re- 
member that  I  came  here  as  a  forester  and  superintendent. 
I  agreed  also  to  guard  your  house  and  yourself  from  in- 
trusion, but  if  it  comes  to  the  point  of " 

"There,  there,  Nichols,"  croaked  McGuire,  "don't  fly 
off  the  handle.  We'll  just  cross  this  bridge  first.  I — I 
won't  ask  you  to  do  anything  a — a  gentleman  shouldn't." 

"Oh,  well,  sir,"  said  Peter  finally,  "that's  fair  enough." 

McGuire  came  over  and  faced  Peter,  his  watery  eyes 
seeking  Peter's. 

"You'll  swear,  Nichols,  to  say  nothing  of  this  to  any 
one?" 

"Yes.     I'll  keep  silent." 

"Nothing  to  Sheldon?" 

"No." 

"And  you'll  see  this — this  niece  of  the  housekeeper's?" 

"Yes." 

The  man  gave  a  gasp  of  relief  and  sank  into  his  chair. 

"Now  go,  Nichols — and  shift  your  clothes.  Peggy's 
going  about  four.  Come  back  here  and  I'll  give  you  a 
letter  and  a  check." 

Peter  nodded  and  reached  the  door.  As  he  opened  it, 
Stryker  straightened  and  bowed  uncomfortably.  But 
Peter  knew  that  he  had  been  listening  at  the  keyhole. 


CHAPTER  IX 
SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 

PETER  returned  from  New  York  on  Thursday 
night,  having  accomplished  his  curious  mission. 
He  had  first  intercepted  Beth  on  her  way  to  the 
kitchen  and  sworn  her  to  secrecy,  advising  her  to  say 
nothing  to  Mrs.  Bergen  about  the  events  of  the  previous 
night.  And  she  had  agreed  to  respect  his  wishes.  On  the 
way  to  New  York  he  had  sat  in  the  rumble  of  the  low  red 
runabout,  Miss  Peggy  McGuire  at  the  wheel,  driving 
the  fashionable  Freddy.  Miss  McGuire  after  having 
yielded,  the  night  before,  to  the  musical  predilections  of 
Miss  Delaplane,  had  apparently  reconsidered  Peter's  so- 
cial status  and  had  waved  him  to  the  seat  in  the  rear  with 
a  mere  gesture  and  without  apologies.  And  Peter,  biting 
back  a  grin  and  touching  his  hat,  had  obeyed.  The  fa- 
miliarities tolerable  in  such  a  wilderness  as  Black  Rock 
could  not  of  course  be  considered  in  the  halls  of  the 
fashionable  hotel  where  Miss  Peggy  lived  in  New  York, 
and  where  by  dint  of  great  care  and  exclusiveness  she  had 
caught  a  hold  of  the  fringe  of  society.  But  Peter  sat  up 
very  straight,  trying  not  to  hear  what  was  said  in  front. 
If  he  could  only  have  worn  his  Colonel's  uniform  and 
decorations,  or  his  Grand  Ducal  coronet,  and  have  folded 
his  arms,  the  irony  would  have  been  perfection. 

He  had  gone  to  Sheldon,  Senior,  in  the  morning  and 

in  return  for  McGuire's  check  had  been  given  cash  in  the 

shape  of  ten  virginal  five  hundred  dollar  bills.    This  money 

had  been  put  into  an  envelope  and  was  now  folded  carefully 

137 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


in  Peter's  inside  pocket.  Sheldon,  Senior,  to  be  sure,  had 
asked  questions,  but  with  a  good  grace  Peter  had  evaded 
him.  Dick  Sheldon  was  out  of  town,  so  Peter  put  in  the 
remaining  period  before  his  train-time  in  a  music  store 
where  he  spent  all  the  money  that  remained  of  his  salary, 
on  books,  a  few  for  the  piano  but  most  of  them  for  Beth. 
Peter  had  wasted,  as  he  had  thought,  two  perfectly  good 
years  in  trying  to  learn  to  sing.  But  those  two  years 
were  not  going  to  be  wasted  now — for  Beth  was  to  be  his 
mouthpiece,  tie  knew  the  beginnings  of  a  training — how 
to  give  her  the  advantage  of  the  instruction  he  had  re- 
ceived from  one  of  the  best  teachers  in  Milan.  He  was 
lucky  enough  to  find  books  on  the  Italian  method  of  voice 
production  and  on  the  way  back  to  McGuire's,  armed 
with  these,  he  stopped  off  at  the  Bergen  house  in  Black 
Rock  village  and  returned  Beth's  call. 

There  he  found  Shad  Wells,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  smok- 
ing a  pipe  in  the  portico,  and  looking  like  a  thunder- 
cloud. In  response  to  Peter's  query,  he  moved  his  right 
shoulder  half  an  inch  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  and 
then  spat  in  the  geranium  bed.  So  Peter  knocked  at  the 
door,  softly  at  first,  then  loudly,  when  Beth  emerged, 
her  sleeves  rolled  to  her  shoulders  and  her  arms  covered 
with  soapsuds. 

"Why,  Shad,"  she  said  witheringly,  after  she  had 
greeted  Peter,  "you  might  have  let  me  know!  Come  in, 
Mr.  Nichols.  Excuse  my  appearance.  Wash-day,"  she 
explained,  as  he  followed  her  into  the  dark  interior. 

"I  can't  stop,"  said  the  visitor,  "I  just  came  to  bring 
these  books " 

"For  me!"  she  exclaimed,  hurriedly  wiping  her  arms  on 
her  apron. 

"I  got  them  in  New  York " 

She  pulled  up  the  shade  at  the  side,  letting  in  the  sun- 
light, an  act  permissible  in  the  parlors  of  Black  Rock 
138 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


only  on  state  occasions,  for  the  sunlight  (as  every  one 
knew)  was  not  kind  to  plush-covered  furniture. 

"For  iner  Beth  repeated  softly.  "I  didn't  think  you 
meant  it." 

"Tone  production — Exercises"  explained  Peter,  "and 
here's  one  on  The  Lives  of  the  Great  Composers.  I  thought 
you  might  be  interested  in  reading  it." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  am — I  will  be.  Thank  you  ever  so 
much " 

"Of  course  you  can't  do  much  by  yourself  just  yet — 
not  without  a  piano — to  get  the  pitch — the  key — but 
I've  brought  a  tuning  fork  and " 

"But  I've  got  the  harmonium ,"  Beth  broke  in  ex- 
citedly. "It's  a  little  out  of  tune,  but " 

"The  harmonium!"  asked  the  bewildered  Peter. 
"What's  that?" 

Beth  proudly  indicated  a  piece  of  furniture  made  of 
curly  walnut  which  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
There  were  several  books  on  the  top  of  it — Gospel  Times 
— Moody  and  Sankey,  a  Methodist  Episcopal  hymn 
book,  and  a  glass  case  containing  wax  flowers. 

"We  play  it  Sundays ,"  said  Beth,  "but  it  ought 

to  help " 

"You  play !"  he  said  in  surprise. 

"Aunt  Tillie  and  I — oh,  just  hymns ."     She  sat, 

while  Peter  watched,  began  pumping  vigorously  with  her 
feet  and  presently  the  instrument  emitted  a  doleful  sound. 
"It  has  notes  anyhow,"  said  Beth  with  a  laugh. 

"Splendid !"  said  Peter.  "And  when  I've  told  you  what 
to  do  you  can  practice  here.  You'll  come  soon?" 

She  nodded.     "When?" 

"To-morrow — sometime?"  And  then,  "What's  the 
matter  with  Wells?"  he  asked. 

She  frowned.  "He  just  asked  me  to  marry  him.  It's 
the  twenty-seventh  time." 

139 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


«oh " 

"I  can't  be  botherin'  with  Shad — not  on  wash-day — or 
any  other  day,"  she  added  as  though  in  an  afterthought. 

Peter  laughed.  He  was  quite  sure  that  nobody  would 
ever  make  her  do  anything  she  didn't  want  to  do. 

"He  knows  I  was  at  the  Cabin  yesterday,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice.  "He  was  watchinV5 

Peter  was  silent  a  moment,  glancing  at  the  books  he  had 
just  brought  her. 

"Of  course  if  he  has  any  claim  on  you,  perhaps ," 

he  began,  when  she  broke  in. 

"Claim!  He  hasn't,"  she  gasped.  "I'll  do  as  I  please. 
And  he'd  better  quit  pesterin'  me  or  I'll " 

"What?" 

She  laughed. 

"Ill  put  him  through  the  clothes-wringer." 

Peter  grinned.  "He  almost  looks  as  though  you'd 
done  that  already." 

And  as  she  followed  him  to  the  door,  "I  thought  I 
ought  to  tell  you  about  Shad.  When  he  gets  ugly — he's 
ugly  an'  no  mistake." 

"Do  you  still  think  he'll — er — swallow  me  at  one  gob- 
ble?" he  asked. 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment  and  then  laughed  with  a 
full  throat.  "I  hope  he  don't— at  least  not  'til  I've  had 
my  singin*  lessons." 

"I  think  I  can  promise  you  that,"  said  Peter. 

She  followed  him  out  to  the  porch,  where  they  looked 
about  for  Shad.  He  had  disappeared.  And  in  the  "Liz- 
zie," which  had  been  panting  by  the  side  of  the  road,  Peter 
was  conducted  by  the  soiled  young  man  at  the  wheel  to 
Black  Rock  House. 

Nothing  unusual  had  happened  in  his  absence,  nor 
had  any  other  message  or  warning  been  posted,  for 
Stryker,  released  for  this  duty,  had  searched  all  the  morn- 
140 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


ing  and  found  nothing.     "Hawk"  was  waiting,  biding  his 
hour. 

Curiously  enough,  an  astonishing  calm  seemed  to  have 
fallen  over  the  person  of  Jonathan  K.  McGuire.  When 
Peter  arrived  he  found  his  employer  seated  on  the  portico 
in  a  wicker  chair,  smoking  his  after-supper  cigar.  True, 
the  day  guards  were  posted  near  by  and  Stryker  hovered 
as  was  his  wont,  but  the  change  in  his  employer's  de- 
meanor was  so  apparent  that  Peter  wondered  how  such  a 
stolid-looking  creature  could  ever  have  lost  his  self-con- 
trol. It  was  difficult  to  understand  this  metamorphosis 
unless  it  could  be  that,  having  come  to  a  decision  and 
aware  of  the  prospect  of  immunity,  if  only  a  temporary 
one,  McGuire  had  settled  down  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
job  and  await  with  stoicism  whatever  the  future  was  to 
bring.  This  was  Peter's  first  impression,  nothing  else 
suggesting  itself,  but  when  he  followed  the  old  man  up  to 
his  room  and  gave  him  the  money  he  had  brought  he  noted 
the  deeply  etched  lines  at  nostril  and  jaw  and  felt  rather 
than  saw  the  meaning  of  them — that  Jonathan  McGuire 
was  in  the  grip  of  some  deep  and  sinister  resolution.  There 
was  a  quality  of  desperation  in  his  calmness,  a  studied 
indifference  to  the  dangers  which  the  night  before  last 
had  seemed  so  appalling. 

He  put  the  money  in  the  safe,  carefully  locked  the  com- 
bination and  then  turned  into  the  room  again. 

"Thanks,  Nichols,"  he  said.  "You'd  better  have  some 
supper  and  get  to  bed  to-night.  I  don't  think  you'll  be 
needed."  And  then,  as  Peter's  look  showed  his  surprise, 
"I  know  my  man  better  than  you  do.  To-morrow  night 
we  shall  see." 

He  closed  his  lips  into  a  thin  line,  shot  out  his  jaw  and 
lowered  his  brows  unpleasantly.     Courage  of  a  sort  had 
come  back  to  him,  the  courage  of  the  animal  at  bay, 
which  fights  against  the  inevitable. 
141 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


To  Peter  the  time  seemed  propitious  to  state  the  need 
for  the  observation  towers  and  he  explained  in  detail  his 
projects.  But  McGuire  listened  and  when  Peter  had 
finished  speaking  merely  shook  his  head. 

"What  you  say  is  quite  true.  The  towers  must  be  built. 
I've  thought  so  for  a  long  time.  In  a  few  days  we  will 
speak  of  that  again — after  to-morrow  night,"  he  finished 
significantly. 

"As  you  please,"  said  Peter,  "but  every  day  lost  now 
may " 

"We'll  gain  these  days  later,"  he  broke  in  abruptly. 
"I  want  you  to  stay  around  here  now.'* 

On  Friday  morning  he  insisted  on  having  Peter  show 
him  the  tree  where  the  placard  had  been  discovered,  and 
Peter,  having  taken  lunch  with  him,  led  him  down  to  the 
big  sugar  maple,  off  the  path  to  the  cabin.  Peter  saw 
that  he  scanned  the  woods  narrowly  and  walked  with  a 
hand  in  his  waist-band,  which  Peter  knew  held  an  Army 
Colt  revolver,  but  the  whine  was  gone  from  his  voice,  the 
trembling  from  his  hands.  He  walked  around  the  maple 
with  Peter,  regarding  it  with  a  sort  of  morbid  abstrac- 
tion and  then  himself  led  the  way  to  the  path  and  to  the 
house.  Why  he  wanted  to  look  at  the  tree  was  more  than 
Peter  could  understand,  for  it  was  Peter,  and  not  he,  who 
was  to  keep  this  costly  assignation. 

"You  understand,  Nichols,"  he  said  when  they  reached 
the  portico,  "you've  agreed  to  go — to-night — at  eleven." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  meet  him — without  the  money." 

"No — no.  I've  made  up  my  mind ,"  gasped  Mc- 
Guire with  a  touch  of  his  old  alarm,  "there  can't  be  any 
change  in  the  plan — no  change  at  all." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Peter,  "it's  not  my  money  I'm 
giving  away." 

"It  won't  matter,  Nichols.    I — I've  got  a  lot  more " 

"But  the  principle "  protested  Peter. 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


"To  H with  the  principle,"  growled  the  old  man. 

Peter  turned  and  went  back  to  the  Cabin,  somewhat 
disgusted  with  his  whole  undertaking.  Already  he  had 
been  here  for  five  days  and,  except  for  two  walks  through 
the  woods  for  purposes  of  investigation,  nothing  that  he 
had  come  to  do  had  been  accomplished.  He  had  not  yet 
even  visited  the  sawmills  which  were  down  on  the  corduroy 
road  five  miles  away.  So  far  as  he  could  see,  for  the 
present  he  was  merely  McGuire's  handy  man,  a  kind  of 
upper  servant  and  messenger,  whose  duties  could  have 
been  performed  as  capably  by  Stryker  or  Shad  Wells,  or 
even  Jesse  Brown.  The  forest  called  him.  It  needed  him. 
From  what  he  had  heard  he  knew  that  down  by  the  saw- 
mills they  were  daily  cutting  the  wrong  trees.  He  had 
already  sent  some  instructions  to  the  foreman  there,  but 
he  could  not  be  sure  that  his  orders  had  been  obeyed.  He 
knew  that  he  ought  to  spend  the  day  there,  making 
friends  with  the  men  and  explaining  the  reasons  for  the 
change  in  orders,  but  as  long  as  McGuire  wanted  him 
within  telephone  range,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
obey. 

He  reached  the  Cabin,  threw  off  his  coat,  and  had 
hardly  settled  down  at  the  table  to  finish  his  drawing,  a 
plan  of  the  observation  towers,  when  Beth  appeared.  He 
rose  and  greeted  her.  Her  face  was  flushed,  for  she  had 
been  running. 

"Has  Shad  been  here?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"No." 

"Oh !"  she  gasped.  "I  was  afraid  he'd  get  here  before 
me.  I  took  the  short  cut  through  the  woods." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"He  said  he — he  was  going  to  break  you  to  bits ** 

"To  bits!     Me?     Why?" 

"Because  he — he  says  I  oughtn't  to  come  here " 

143 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Oh,  I  see,"  he  muttered,  and  then,  with  a  grin,  "and 
what  do  you  think  about  it,  Beth?" 

"I'll  do  what  I  please,"  she  said.  "So  long  as  I  think 
it's  all  right.  What  business  has  he  got  to  stop  me!" 

Peter  laughed.  "Don't  let's  bother  then.  Did  you 
bring  your  books  ?" 

She  hadn't  brought  them.  She  had  come  in  such  a 
hurry. 

"But  aren't  you  afraid — when  he  comes?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter.  "Do  you  think  I  ought 
to  be?" 

"Well,  Shad's— he's  what  they  caU  a  Hellion  around 
here." 

"What's  a— er— Hellion?" 

"A — a  scrapper." 

"Oh,  a  fighting  man?" 

"Yes." 

Peter  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  struck  loudly  some 
strident  discords  in  the  bass.  "Like  this!"  he  laughed. 
"Isn't  it  ugly,  Beth— that's  what  fighting  is— I  had  it 
day  and  night  for  years.  If  Shad  had  been  in  the  war  he 
wouldn't  ever  want  to  fight  again." 

"Were  you  in  the  war?"  asked  Beth  in  amazement. 

"Of  course.  Where  would  I  have  been?"  And  before 
she  could  reply  he  had  swept  into  the  rumbling  bass  of  the 
"Revolutionary  Etude."  She  sank  into  a  chair  and  sat 
silent,  listening,  at  first  watching  the  door,  and  then  as  the 
soul  of  the  artist  within  her  awoke  she  forgot  everything 
but  the  music. 

There  was  a  long  silence  at  the  end  when  Peter  paused, 
and  then  he  heard  her  voice,  tense,  suppressed. 

"I  could  see  it — you  made  me  see  it!"  she  gasped,  al- 
most in  a  whisper.  "War — revolution — the  people — 
angry — mumbling — crowding,  pushing  ...  a  crowd  with 
144 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


guns  and  sticks  howling  at  a  gate  .  .  .  and  then  a  man 
trying  to  speak  to  them — appealing " 

Peter  turned  quickly  at  the  words  and  faced  her.  Her 
eyes  were  like  stars,  her  soul  rapt  in  the  vision  his  music 
had  painted.  Peter  had  lived  that  scene  again  and  again, 
but  how  could  Beth  know  unless  he  had  made  her  see  it? 
There  was  something  strange — uncanny — in  Beth's  vision 
of  the  great  drama  of  Peter's  life.  And  yet  she  had 
seen.  Even  now  her  spirit  was  afar. 

"And  what  happened  to  the  man  who  was  appealing 
to  them?'*  he  asked  soberly. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  then  opened  them  toward  him, 
shaking  her  head.  "I — I  don't  know — it's  all  gone  now." 

"But  you  saw  what  I  played.    That  is  what  happened." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  questioned,  startled  in  her 
turn. 

Peter  shrugged  himself  into  the  present  moment. 
"Nothing.  It's  just — revolution.  War.  War  is  like 
that,  Beth,"  he  went  on  quietly  after  a  moment.  "Like 
the  motif  in  the  bass — there  is  no  end — the  threat  of  it 
never  stops — day  or  night.  Only  hell  could  be  like  it." 

Beth  slowly  came  out  of  her  dream. 

"You  fought?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes." 

Another  silence.  "I — I  think  I  understand  now  why 
you're  not  afraid." 

"But  I  am  afraid,  Beth,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "I  was 
always  afraid  in  the  war.  Because  Death  is  always  wait- 
ing just  around  the  corner.  Nobody  who  has  been  in  the 
war  wants  ever  to  fight  again." 

He  turned  to  the  piano.  "They  all  want  happiness, 
Beth.  Peace.  This!"  he  finished,  and  his  roving  fingers 
played  softly  the  Tschaikowsky  "Reverie." 

When  he  had  finished  he  turned  to  her,  smiling. 

"What  vision  do  you  see  in  that,  Beth?" 
145 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


She  started  as  though  from  a  dream.  "Oh,  happiness 
— and  sadness,  too." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  soberly.  "No  one  knows  what  it  is 
to  be  happy  unless  one  has  been  sad." 

"That's  true,  isn't  it?"  she  muttered,  looking  at  him 
in  wonder.  "I  never  knew  what  unhappiness  was  for — 
but  I  guess  that's  it." 

He  caught  the  minor  note  in  her  voice  and  smiled. 

"Come  now,"  he  said,  "we'll  have  our  first  lesson." 

"Without  the  books?" 

"Yes.    We'll  try  breathing." 

"Breathing?" 

"Yes — from  the  diaphragm." 

And  as  she  looked  bewildered,  "From  the  stomach — not 
from  the  chest — breathe  deeply  and  say  'Ah.'  " 

She  obeyed  him  and  did  it  naturally,  as  though  she 
had  never  breathed  in  any  other  way. 

"Fine,"  he  cried  and  touched  a  note  on  the  piano. 
"Now  sing  it.  Throw  it  forward.  Softly  first,  then 
louder " 

It  was  while  she  was  carrying  out  this  instruction  that 
a  shadow  appeared  on  the  doorsill,  followed  in  a  mo- 
ment by  the  figure  of  Shad  Wells.  Beth's  "Ah"  ceased 
suddenly.  The  visitor  stood  outside,  his  hands  on  his 
hips,  in  silent  rage. 

Peter  merely  glanced  at  him  over  his  shoulder. 

"How  are  you,  Wells?"  he  said  politely.  "Won't  you 
come  in?  We've  having  a  singing  lesson." 

Shad  did  not  move  or  speak  as  Peter  went  on,  "Take 
the  chair  by  the  door,  old  man.  The  cigarettes  are  on 
the  table.  Now,  Beth " 

But  Beth  remained  as  she  was,  uneasily  regarding  the 
intruder,  for  she  knew  that  Shad  was  there  for  no  good 
purpose.  Peter  caught  her  look  and  turned  toward  the 
146 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


door,    deliberately   ignoring   the   man's    threatening    de- 
meanor. 

"We  won't  be  long."  he  began  coolly,  "not  over  half 
an  hour " 

"No,  I  know  ye  won't,"  growled  Shad.  And  then  to 
the  girl,  "Beth,  come  out  o'  there !" 

If  Shad's  appearance  had  caused  Beth  any  uncertainty, 
she  found  her  spirit  now,  for  her  eyes  flashed  and  her 
mouth  closed  in  a  hard  line. 

"Who  are  you  to  say  where  I  come  or  go?"  she  said 
evenly. 

But  Shad  stood  his  ground. 

"If  you  don't  know  enough  to  know  what's  what  I'm 
here  to  show  you." 

"Oh,  I  say ,"  said  Peter  coolly. 

"You  can  say  what  you  like,  Mister.  And  I've  got 
somethin'  to  say  to  you  when  this  lady  goes." 

"Oh, "  and  then  quietly  to  Beth,  "Perhaps  you'd 

better  go.     Bring  the  books   to-morrow — at   the   same 
time." 

But  Beth  hadn't  moved,  and  only  looked  at  Peter  ap- 
pealingly.  So  Peter  spoke. 

"This  man  is  impolite,  not  to  say  disagreeable  to  you. 
Has  he  any  right  to  speak  to  you  like  this  ?" 

"No,"  said  Beth  uneasily,  "but  I  don't  want  any 
trouble." 

Peter  walked  to  the  door  and  faced  Shad  outside. 

"There  won't  be  any  trouble  unless  Wells  makes  it." 
And  then,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  come  to  him,  he  said 
more  cheerfully,  "Perhaps  he  doesn't  quite  under- 
stand  " 

"Oh,  I  understand,  all  right.    Are  you  goin',  Beth?" 

She  glanced  at  Peter,  who  nodded  toward  the  path,  and 
she  came  between  them. 

"Go  on  back,  Shad,"  she  said. 
147 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"No." 

"Do  you  mean  it?  If  you  do  I'm  through  with  you. 
You  understand?" 

Peter  took  the  girl  by  the  arm  and  led  hertgently  away. 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  Wells,"  he  flung  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  man,  "I'll  be  back  in  a  second." 

The  careless  tone  rather  bewildered  the  woodsman,  who 
had  expected  to  find  either  fear  or  anger.  The-  forester- 
piano-player  showed  neither — only  careless  ease  and  a 
coolness  which  could  only  be  because  he  didn't  know  what 
was  coming  to  him. 

"D — n  him!  I'll  fix  him!"  muttered  Shad,  quivering 
with  rage.  But  Peter  having  fortified  himselfwith  a  ciga- 
rette was  now  returning.  Wells  advanced  into  an  open 
space  where  there  was  plenty  of  room  to  swing  his  elbows 
and  waited. 

"Now,  Wells,"  said  Peter  alertly,  "you  wanted  to  see 
me?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  ye  stuck-up  piano-playin',  psalm-singin' 

."     And  suiting  the  action  to  the 

word  leaped  for  Peter,  both  fists  flying. 

The  rugged  and  uncultured  often  mistake  politeness 
for  effeminacy,  sensibility  for  weakness.  Shad  was  a 
rough  and  tumble  artist  of  a  high  proficiency,  and  he  had 
a  reputation  for  strength  and  combativeness.  He  was 
going  to  make  short  work  of  this  job. 

But  Peter  had  learned  his  boxing  with  his  cricket.  Also 
he  had  practiced  the  Savate  and  was  familiar  with  jiu 
jitsu — but  he  didn't  need  either  of  them. 

Wells  rushed  twice  but  Peter  was  not  where  he  rushed. 
The  only  damage  he  had  done  was  to  tear  out  the  sleeve 
of  Peter's  shirt. 

"Stand  up  an*  fight  like  a  man,"  growled  Shad. 

"There's  no  hurry,"  said  Peter,  calmly  studying  Shad's 
methods. 

148 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


"Oh,  ain't  there !" 

This  bull-like  rush  Peter  stopped  with  a  neat  upper- 
cut,  straightening  Shad's  head  which  came  up  with  a  dis- 
figured nose  and  before  he  could  throw  down  his  guard, 
Peter  landed  hard  on  his  midriff.  Shad  winced  but  shot 
out  a  blow  which  grazed  Peter's  cheek.  Then  Peter  coun- 
tered on  Shad's  injured  nose.  Shad's  eyes  were  now  re- 
garding Peter  in  astonishment.  But  in  a  moment  only 
one  of  them  was,  for  Peter  closed  the  other. 

"We'd  better  stop  now,"  gasped  Peter,  "and  talk  this 
over." 

"No,  you ,"  roared  Shad,  for  he  sus- 
pected that  somewhere  in  the  bushes  Beth  was  watching. 

Peter  lost  what  remained  of  his  shirt  in  the  next  rush 
and  sprained  a  thumb.  It  didn't  do  to  fight  Shad  "rough 
and  tumble."  But  he  got  away  at  last  and  stood  his  man 
off,  avoiding  the  blind  rushes  and  landing  almost  at  will. 

"Had  enough?"  he  asked  again,  as  politely  as  ever. 

"No,"  gulped  the  other. 

So  Peter  sprang  in  and  struck  with  all  the  force  of  his 
uninjured  hand  on  the  woodsman's  jaw,  and  then  Shad 
went  down  and  lay  quiet.  It  had  been  ridiculously  easy 
from  the  first  and  Peter  felt  some  pity  for  Shad  and  not 
a  little  contempt  for  himself.  But  he  took  the  precaution 
of  bending  over  the  man  and  extracting  the  revolver  that 
he  found  in  Shad's  hip  pocket. 

As  he  straightened  and  turned  he  saw  Beth  standing 
in  the  path  regarding  him. 

"Beth!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  glance  at  Shad.  "You 
saw?" 

"Yes."  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "It 
was  horrible." 

"I  tried  to  avoid  it,"  he  protested. 

"Yes,  I  know.  It  was  his  own  fault.  Is  he  badly 
hurt?" 

149 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"No,  I  think  not.    But  you'd  better  go." 

"Why?" 

"It  will  only  make  matters  worse  if  he  sees  you." 

She  understood,  turned  and  vanished  obediently. 

Then  Peter  went  to  the  house,  got  a  basin  and,  fetch- 
ing some  water  from  the  creek,  played  the  Samaritan.  In 
a  while  Shad  gasped  painfully  and  sat  up,  looking  at  the 
victor. 

"Sorry,"  said  Peter,  "but  you  would  have  it." 

Shad  blinked  his  uninjured  eye  and  rose,  feeling  at 
his  hip. 

"I  took  your  revolver,"  said  Peter  calmly. 

"Give  it  here." 

"A  chap  with  a  bad  temper  has  no  business  carrying 
one,"  said  Peter  sternly. 

"OR ."  The  man  managed  to  get  to  his  feet. 

"I'm  sorry,  Shad,"  said  Peter  again,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "Let's  be  friends." 

Shad  looked  at  the  hand  sullenly  for  a  moment.  "I'll 
fix  you,  Mister.  I'll  fix  you  yet,"  he  muttered,  then 
turned  and  walked  away. 

If  Peter  had  made  one  friend  he  had  also  made  an 
enemy. 

The  incident  with  Shad  Wells  was  unfortunate,  but 
Peter  didn't  see  how  it  could  have  been  avoided.  He  was 
thankful  nevertheless  for  his  English  schooling,  which  had 
saved  him  from  a  defeat  at  the  hands  of  a  "roughneck" 
which  could  have  been,  under  the  circumstances,  nothing 
less  than  ignominious.  For  if  Shad  Wells  had  succeeded 
in  vanquishing  him,  all  Peter's  authority,  all  his  influence 
with  the  rest  of  the  men  in  McGuire's  employ  would  have 
gone  forever,  for  Shad  Wells  was  not  the  kind  of  man 
upon  whom  such  a  victory  would  have  lightly  sat.  If  he 
had  thrashed  Peter,  Shad  and  not  Peter  would  have  been 
150 


SHAD  IS  UNPLEASANT 


the  boss  of  Black  Rock  and  Peter's  position  would  have 
been  intolerable. 

As  Peter  laved  his  broken  knuckles  and  bruised  cheek, 
he  wondered  if,  after  all,  the  affair  hadn't  been  for  the 
best.  True,  he  had  made  an  enemy  of  Shad,  but  then 
according  to  the  girl,  Shad  had  already  been  his  enemy. 
Peter  abhorred  fighting,  as  he  had  told  Beth,  but,  what- 
ever the  consequences,  he  was  sure  that  the  air  had  cleared 
amazingly.  He  was  aware  too  that  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  the  champion  of  Beth's  independence  definitely 
stood  forth.  Whatever  the  wisdom  or  the  propriety,  ac- 
cording to  the  standards  of  Black  Rock  society,  of  Beth's 
visits  to  the  Cabin,  for  the  purpose  of  a  musical  educa- 
tion or  for  any  other  purposes,  Peter  was  aware  that  he 
had  set  the  seal  of  his  approval  upon  them,  marked,  that 
any  who  read  might  run,  upon  the  visage  of  Mr.  Wells. 
Peter  was  still  sorry  for  Shad,  but  still  more  sorry  for 
Beth,  whose  name  might  be  lightly  used  for  her  share  in 
the  adventure. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  say  nothing  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  he  felt  reasonably  certain  that  Shad  Wells 
would  reach  a  similar  decision.  He  was  not  at  all  cer- 
tain that  Beth  wouldn't  tell  everybody  what  had  hap- 
pened for  he  was  aware  by  this  time  that  Beth  was  the 
custodian  of  her  own  destinies  and  that  she  would  not 
need  the  oracles  of  Black  Rock  village  as  censors  of  her 
behavior. 

But  when  he  went  up  to  the  house  for  supper  he  made 
his  way  over  the  log- jam  below  the  pool  and  so  to  the 
village,  stopping  for  a  moment  at  the  Bergen  house,  where 
Beth  was  sitting  on  the  porch  reading  The  Lives  of  the 
Great  Composers.  She  was  so  absorbed  that  she  did  not 
see  him  until  he  stood  at  the  little  swing  gate,  hat  in  hand. 

She  greeted  him  quietly,  glancing  up  at  his  bruised 
cheek. 

151 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "that  it  was  on  my  account." 

"I'm  not — now  that  I've  done  the  'gobbling,'  "  he  said 
with  a  grin.  And  then,  "Where's  Shad?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him.  I  guess  he's  gone  in  his  hole  and 
pulled  it  in  after  him." 

Peter  smiled.  "I  just  stopped  by  to  say  that  perhaps 
you'd  better  say  nothing.  It  would  only  humiliate  him." 

"I  wasn't  goin'  to — but  it  served  him  right " 

"And  if  you  think  people  will  talk  about  your  coming 
to  the  Cabin,  1  thought  perhaps  I  ought  to  give  you  your 
lessons  here." 

"Here !"  she  said,  and  he  didn't  miss  the  note  of  disap- 
pointment in  her  tone. 

"If  your  cousin  Shad  disapproves,  perhaps  there  are 
others." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  she  looked  up  at 
him  shyly. 

"If  it's  just  the  same  to  you — I — I'd  rather  come  to 
the  Cabin,"  she  said  quietly.  "It's  like — like  a  different 
world — with  your  playin'  an'  all "  And  then  scorn- 
fully, "What  do  I  care  what  they  think !" 

"Of  course — I'm  delighted.  I  thought  I  ought  to  con- 
sult you,  that's  all.  And  you'll  come  to-morrow?" 

"Yes — of  course." 

He  said  nothing  about  the  meeting  that  was  to  take 
place  that  night  with  the  mysterious  "Hawk"  at  the  maple 
tree.  He  meant  to  find  out,  if  possible,  how  Beth  could 
be  concerned  (if  she  was  concerned)  in  the  fortunes  of 
the  mysterious  gentleman  of  the  placard,  but  until  he 
learned  something  definite  he  thought  it  wiser  not  to  take 
Beth  further  into  his  confidence. 


CHAPTER  X 
"HAWK" 

THREE  months  ago  it  would  have  been  difficult  for 
His  Highness,  Grand  Duke  Peter  Nicholaevitch, 
to  imagine  himself  in  his  present  situation  as 
sponsor  for  Beth  Cameron.  He  had  been  no  saint. 
Saintly  attributes  were  not  usually  to  be  found  in  young 
men  of  his  class,  and  Peter's  training  had  been  in  the 
larger  school  of  the  world  as  represented  in  the  Conti- 
nental capitals.  He  had  tasted  life  under  the  tutelage 
of  a  father  who  believed  that  women,  bad  as  well  as  good, 
were  a  necessary  part  of  a  gentleman's  education,  and 
Peter  had  learned  many  things.  .  .  .  Had  it  not  been 
for  his  music  and  his  English  love  of  fair  play,  he  would 
have  stood  an  excellent  chance  of  going  to  the  devil  along 
the  precipitous  road  that  had  led  the  Grand  Duke 
Nicholas  Petrovitch  there. 

But  Peter  had  discovered  that  he  had  a  mind,  the  needs 
of  which  were  more  urgent  than  those  of  his  love  of 
pleasure.  Many  women  he  had  known,  Parisian,  Viennese, 
Russian — and  one,  Vera  Davydov,  a  musician,  had  en- 
chained him  until  he  had  discovered  that  it  was  her  violin 
and  not  her  soul  that  had  sung  to  him  .  .  .  Anastasie 
Galitzin  ...  a  dancer  in  Moscow  .  .  .  and  then — the 
War. 

In  that  terrible  alembic  the  spiritual  ingredients  which 
macle  Peter's   soul  had  been  stirred  until  only  the  es- 
sential remained.  But  that  essence  was  the  real  Peter — 
a  wholesome  young  man  steeped  in  idealism  slightly  tinged 
153 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


with  humor.  It  was  idealism  that  had  made  him  attempt 
the  impossible,  humor  that  had  permitted  him  to  survive 
his  failure,  for  no  tragedy  except  death  itself  can  defy 
a  sense  of  humor  if  it's  whimsical  enough.  There  was 
something  about  the  irony  of  his  position  in  Black  Rock 
which  interested  him  even  more  than  the  drama  that  lay 
hidden  with  McGuire's  Nemesis  in  the  pine  woods.  And 
he  couldn't  deny  the  fact  that  this  rustic,  this  primitive 
Beth  Cameron  was  as  fine  a  little  lady  as  one  might  meet 
anywhere  in  the  wide  world.  She  had  amused  him  at 
first  with  originality,  charmed  him  with  simplicity,  amazed 
him  later  with  talent  and  now  had  disarmed  him  with 
trust  in  his  integrity.  If  at  any  moment  the  idea  had  en- 
tered Peter's  head  that  here  was  a  wild-flower  waiting  to 
be  gathered  and  worn  in  his  hat,  she  had  quickly  disabuse^ 
his  mind  of  that  chimera.  Curious.  He  found  it  as  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  of  making  free  with  Beth  as  with  the 
person  of  the  Metropolitan  of  Moscow,  or  with  that  of 
the  President  of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad.  She  had 
her  dignity.  It  was  undeniable.  He  imagined  the  sur- 
prise in  her  large  blue  eyes  and  the  torrent  of  ridicule  of 
which  her  tongue  could  be  capable.  He  had  felt  the  sting 
of  its  humor  at  their  first  meeting.  He  had  no  wish  to 
test  it  again. 

And  now,  after  a  few  days  of  acquaintanceship,  he 
found  himself  Beth's  champion,  the  victor  over  the  "Hel- 
lion" triplet,  and  the  guardian  of  her  good  repute.  He 
found,  strangely  enough,  the  responsibility  strengthening 
his  good  resolves  toward  Beth  and  adding  another  tie  to 
those  of  sympathy  and  admiration.  The  situation,  while 
not  altogether  of  his  making,  was  not  without  its  attrac- 
tions. He  had  given  Beth  her  chance  to  withdraw  from 
the  arrangement  and  she  had  persisted  in  the  plan  to 
come  to  the  Cabin.  Very  well.  It  was  his  cabin.  She 
154, 


'HAWK" 


should  come  and  he  would  teach  her  to  sing.  But  he 
knew  that  Peter  Nichols  was  throwing  temptation  in 
the  way  of  Peter  Nicholaevitch. 

******* 

McGuire  was  quiet  that  night  and  while  they  smoked 
Peter  talked  at  length  on  the  needs  of  the  estate  as  he 
saw  them.  Peter  went  down  to  the  Cabin  and  brought  up 
his  maps  and  his  plans  for  the  fire  towers.  McGuire 
nodded  or  assented  in  monosyllables,  but  Peter  was  sure 
that  he  heard  little  and  saw  less,  for  at  intervals  he 
glanced  at  the  clock,  or  at  his  watch,  and  Peter  knew  that 
his  obsession  had  returned.  Outside,  somewhere  in  the 
woods,  "Hawk"  was  approaching  to  keep  his  tryst  and 
McGuire  could  think  of  nothing  else.  This  preoccupation 
was  marked  by  a  frowning  thatch  of  brow  and  a  sullen 
glare  at  vacancy  which  gave  n»  evidence  of  the  fears  that 
had  inspired  him,  but  indicated  a  mind  made  up  in  desper- 
ation to  carry  out  his  plans,  through  Peter,  whatever 
happened  later.  Only  the  present  concerned  him.  But 
underneath  his  outward  appearance  of  calm,  Peter  was 
aware  of  an  intense  alertness,  for  from  time  to  time  his 
eyes  glowed  suddenly  and  the  muscles  worked  in  his  cheeks 
as  he  clamped  his  jaws  shut  and  held  them  so. 

As  the  clock  struck  ten  McGuire  got  to  his  feet  and 
walked  to  the  safe,  which  he  opened  carefully  and  took 
out  the  money  that  Peter  had  brought.  Then  he  went 
to  a  closet  and  took  out  an  electric  torch  which  he  tested 
and  then  put  upon  the  table. 

"You're  armed,  Nichols?"  he  asked. 

Peter  nodded.  "But  of  course  there's  no  reason  why 
your  mysterious  visitor  should  take  a  pot  at  me,"  he 
said.  And  then,  curiously,  "Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  other  quickly.  "You  have  no  inter- 
est in  this  affair.  You're  my  messenger,  that's  all.  But 
155 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


I  want  you  to  follow  my  instructions  carefully.  I've 
trusted  you  this  far  and  I've  got  to  go  the  whole  way. 
This  man  will  say  something.  You  will  try  to  remember 
word  for  word  what  he  says  to  you,  and  you're  to  repeat 
that  message  to  me." 

"That  shouldn't  be  difficult." 

McGuire  was  holding  the  money  in  his  hand  and  went 
on  in  an  abstraction  as  though  weighing  words. 

"I  want  you  to  go  at  once  to  the  maple  tree.  I  want 
you  to  go  now  so  that  you  will  be  there  when  this  man 
arrives.  You  will  stand  waiting  for  him  and  when  he 
comes  you  will  throw  the  light  into  his  face,  so  that  you 
can  see  him  when  you  talk  to  him,  and  so  that  he  can 
count  this  money  and  see  that  the  amount  is  correct.  I 
do  not  want  you  to  go  too  close  to  him  nor  to  permit 
him  to  go  too  close  to  you — you  are  merely  to  hand  him 
this  package  and  throw  the  light  while  he  counts  the 
money.  Then  you  are  to  say  to  him  these  words,  'Don't 
forget  the  blood  on  the  knife,  Hawk  Kennedy.' " 

"  'Don't  forget  the  blood  on  the  knife,  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy,' "  murmured  Peter  in  amazement.  And  then,  "But 
suppose  he  wants  to  tell  me  a  lot  of  things  you  don't  want 
me  to  know " 

"I'll  have  to  risk  that,"  put  in  McGuire  grimly.  "I 
•want  you  to  watch  him  carefully,  Nichols.  Are  you 
pretty  quick  on  the  draw?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  can  you  draw  your  gun  and  shoot  quickly — 
surely?  If  you  can't,  you'd  better  have  your  gun  in  your 
pocket,  keep  him  covered  and  at  the  first  sign,  shoot 
through  your  coat.'* 

Peter  took  out  his  revolver  and  examined  it  quizzically. 
"I  thought  you  said,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  put  in  coolly, 
"that  I  was  not  to  be  required  to  do  anything  a  gentle- 
man couldn't  do." 

156 


"HAWK" 


"Exactly,"  said  the  old  man  jerkily. 

"I  shouldn't  say  that  shooting  a  defenseless  man  an- 
swers that  requirement." 

McGuire  threw  up  his  hands  wildly. 

"There  you  go — up  in  the  air  again.  I  didn't  say  you 
were  to  shoot  him,  did  I?"  he  whined.  "I'm  just  warn- 
ing you  to  be  on  the  lookout  in  case  he  attacks  you. 
That— that's  all." 

"Why  should  he  attack  me?" 

"He  shouldn't,  but  he  might  be  angry  because  I  didn't 
come  myself." 

"I  see.  Perhaps  you'd  better  go,  sir.  Then  you  can 
do  your  killing  yourself." 

McGuire  fell  back  against  the  table,  to  which  he  clung, 
his  face  gray  with  apprehension,  for  he  saw  that  Peter 
had  guessed  what  he  hoped. 

"You  want  this  man  killed,"  Peter  went  on.  "It's 
been  obvious  to  me  from  the  first  night  I  came  here.  Well, 
I'm  not  going  to  be  the  one  to  do  it." 

McGuire's  glance  fell  to  the  rug  as  he  stammered 
hoarsely,  "I — I  never  asked  you  to  do  it.  Y-you  must  be 
dreaming.  I — I'm  merely  making  plans  to  assure  your 
safety.  I  don't  want  you  hurt,  Nichols.  That's  all. 
You're  not  going  to  back  out  now?"  he  pleaded. 

''Murder  is  a  little  out  of  my  line " 

"You're  not  going  to  fail  me ?"  McGuire's  face 

was  ghastly.  "You  can't,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "You 
can't  let  me  down  now.  /  can't  see  this  man.  I  can't  tell 
Striker  all  you  know.  You're  the  only  one.  You  prom- 
ised, Nichols.  You  promised  to  go." 

"Yes.  And  I'll  keep  my  word — but  I'll  do  it  in  my 
own  way.  I'm  not  afraid  of  any  enemy  of  yours.  Why 
should  I  be?  But  I'm  not  going  to  shoot  him.  If  that's 
understood  give  me  the  money  and  I'll  be  off." 

"Yes — yes.  That's  all  right,  Nichols.  You're  a  good 
157 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


fellow — and  honest.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while  to  stay 
with  me  here."  He  took  up  the  money  and  handed  it  to 
Peter,  who  counted  it  carefully  and  then  put  it  in  an  in- 
side pocket.  "I  don't  see  why  you  think  I  wanted  you  to 
kill  Hawk  Kennedy,"  McGuire  went  on,  whining.  "A 
man's  got  a  right  to  protect  himself,  hasn't  he?  And 
you've  got  a  right  to  protect  yourself,  if  he  tries  to  start 
anything." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  he  might?"1 

"No.     I  can't  say  I  have." 

"All  right.  I'll  take  a  chance.  But  I  want  it  under- 
stood that  I'm  not  responsible  if  anything  goes  wrong." 

"That's  understood." 

Peter  made  his  way  downstairs,  and  out  of  the  front 
door  to  the  portico.  Stryker,  curiously  enough,  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  Peter  went  out  across  the  dim  lawn  into 
tlie  starlight.  Jesse  Brown  challenged  him  by  the  big 
tree  and  Peter  stopped  for  a  moment  to  talk  with  him, 
explaining  that  he  would  be  returning  to  the  house  later. 

"The  old  man  seems  to  be  comin'  to  life,  Mister,"  said 
Jesse. 

"WKat  do  you  mean?" 

"Not  so  skeered-like.  He  was  out  here  when  you  went 
to  the  Cabin  for  them  plans " 

"Out  here?"  said  Peter  in  amazement. 

Andy  nodded.  "He  seemed  more  natural-like, — asked 
what  the  countersign  was  and  said  mebbe  we'd  all  be  goin' 
back  to  the  mills  after  a  night  or  so." 

"Oh,  did  he?  That's  good.  You're  pretty  tired  of  this 
night  work?" 

"Not  so  long  as  it  pays  good.  But  what  did  he  mean 
by  changin'  the  guards?" 

"He  didn't  say  anything  to  me  about  it,"  said  Peter, 
concealing  his  surprise. 

"Oh,  didn't  he?  Well,  he  took  Andy  off  the  privet 
158 


"HAWK" 


hedge  and  sent  him  down  to  the  clump  of  pines  near  the 
road.'* 

"I  see,"  said  Peter.    "Why?" 

"You've  got  me,  Mister.  If  there's  trouble  to-night, 
there  ain't  no  one  at  the  back  of  the  house  at  all.  We're 
one  man  short." 

"Who?" 

"Shad  Wells.    He  ain't  showed  up." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  muttered  Peter.  And  then,  as  he  lighted 
a  cigarette,  "Oh,  well,  we'll  get  along  somehow.  But  look 
sharp,  just  the  same." 

Peter  went  down  the  lawn  thoughtfully.  From  the 
first  he  hadn't  been  any  too  pleased  with  this  mission. 
Though  Peter  was  aware  that  in  the  realm  of  big  busi- 
ness it  masqueraded  under  other  names,  blackmail,  at 
the  best,  was  a  dirty  thing.  At  the  worst — and  Mc- 
Guire's affair  with  the  insistent  Hawk  seemed  to  fall  into 
this  classification, — it  was  both  sinister  and  contemptible. 
To  be  concerned  in  these  dark  doings  even  as  an  emissary 
was  hardly  in  accordance  with  Peter's  notion  of  his  job, 
and  he  had  acceded  to  McGuire's  request  without  think- 
ing of  possible  consequences,  more  out  of  pity  for  his 
employer  in  his  plight  than  for  any  other  reason.  But 
he  remembered  that  it  usually  required  a  guilty  conscience 
to  make  blackmail  possible  and  that  the  man  who  paid 
always  paid  because  of  something  discreditable  which 
he  wished  to  conceal. 

McGuire's  explanations  had  been  thin  and  Peter  knew 
that  the  real  reason  for  the  old  man's  trepidations  was 
something  other  than  the  ones  he  had  given.  He  had 
come  to  Black  Rock  from  New  York  to  avoid  any  possible 
publicity  that  might  result  from  the  visits  of  his  perse- 
cutor and  was  now  paying  this  sum  of  money  for  a  res- 
pite, an  immunity  which  at  the  best  could  only  be  tem- 
porary. It  was  all  wrong  and  Peter  was  sorry  to  have 
159 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


a  hand  in  it,  but  he  couldn't  deny  that  the  interest  with 
which  he  had  first  approached  Black  Rock  House  had 
now  culminated  in  a  curiosity  which  was  almost  an  ob- 
session. Here,  close  at  hand,  was  the  solution  of  the 
mystery,  and  whether  or  not  he  learned  anything  as  to 
the  facts  which  had  brought  McGuire's  discomfiture,  he 
would  at  least  see  and  talk  with  the  awe-inspiring  Hawk 
who  had  been  the  cause  of  them.  Besides,  there  was  Mrs. 
Bergen's  share  in  the  adventure  which  indicated  that 
Beth's  happiness,  too,  was  in  some  way  involved.  For 
Peter,  having  had  time  to  weigh  Beth's  remarks  with  the 
housekeeper's,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  had 
been  but  one  man  near  the  house  that  night.  The  man 
who  had  talked  with  Mrs.  Bergen  at  the  kitchen  door 
was  not  John  Bray  the  camera-man,  or  the  man  with  the 
dark  mustache,  but  Hawk  Kennedy  himself. 

Peter  entered  the  path  to  the  Cabin  and  explored  it 
carefully,  searching  the  woods  on  either  side  and  then, 
cutting  into  the  scrub  oak  at  the  point  where  he  and 
Beth  had  first  seen  the  placard,  made  his  way  to  the 
maple  tree.  There  was  no  one  there.  A  glance  at  his 
watch  under  the  glare  of  the  pocket  torch  showed  that  he 
was  early  for  the  tryst,  so  he  walked  around  the  maple, 
flashing  his  light  into  the  undergrowth  and  at  last  sat 
down,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  lighted  an- 
other cigarette  and  waited. 

Under  the  depending  branches  of  the  heavy  foliage  it 
was  very  dark,  and  he  could  get  only  the  smallest  glimpses 
of  the  star-lit  sky.  At  one  point  toward  Black  Rock  House 
beyond  the  boles  of  the  trees  he  could  see  short  stretches  of 
the  distant  lawn  and,  in  the  distance,  a  light  which  he 
thought  must  be  that  of  McGuire's  bedroom,  for  to-night, 
Peter  had  noticed,  the  shutters  had  been  left  open.  It 
was  very  quiet  too.  Peter  listened  for  the  sounds  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps  among  the  dry  leaves,  but  heard  only 
160 


"HAWK" 


tlie  creak  of  branches  overhead,  the  slight  stir  of  the 
breeze  in  the  leaves  and  the  whistle  of  a  locomotive  many 
miles  away,  on  the  railroad  between  Philadelphia  and  At- 
lantic City. 

The  sound  carried  his  mind  beyond  the  pine-belt  out 
into  the  great  world  from  which  he  had  come,  and  he 
thought  of  many  things  that  might  have  been  instead  of 
this  that  was — the  seething  yeast  that  was  Russia,  the 
tearing  down  of  the  idols  of  centuries  and  the  worship  of 
new  gods  that  were  no  gods  at  all — not  even  those  of 
brass  or  gold — only  visions — will-o'-the-wisps.  .  .  .  The 
madness  had  shown  itself  here  too.  Would  the  fabric 
of  which  the  American  Ideal  was  made  be  strong  enough 
to  hold  together  against  the  World's  new  madness?  He 
believed  in  American  institutions.  Imperfect  though  they 
were,  fallible  as  the  human  wills  which  controlled  them, 
they  were  as  near  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity  as  one 
might  yet  hope  to  attain  in  a  form  of  government  this 
side  of  the  millennium. 

Peter  started  up  suddenly,  for  he  was  sure  that  he  had 
heard  something  moving  in  the  underbrush.  But  after 
listening  intently  and  hearing  nothing  more  he  thought 
that  his  ears  had  deceived  him.  He  flashed  his  lantern 
here  and  there  as  a  guide  to  Hawk  Kennedy  but  there  was 
no  sound.  Complete  silence  had  fallen  again  over  the 
woods.  If  McGuire's  mysterious  enemy  was  approach- 
ing he  was  doing  it  with  the  skill  of  an  Indian  scout.  And 
it  occurred  to  Peter  at  this  moment  that  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy too  might  have  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  sure 
that  he  was  to  be  fairly  dealt  with.  The  placard  had  indi- 
cated the  possibility  of  chicanery  on  the  part  of  McGuire. 
"No  tricks,"  Hawk  had  written.  He  would  make  sure 
that  Peter  was  alone  before  he  showed  himself.  So  Peter 
flashed  his  lamp  around  again,  glanced  at  his  watch, 
which  showed  that  the  hour  of  the  appointment  had 
161 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


passed,  then  lighted  a  third  cigarette  and  sank  down  on 
the  roots  of  the  tree  to  wait. 

There  was  no  other  sound.  The  breeze  which  had  been 
fitful  at  best  had  died  and  complete  silence  had  fallen. 
Peter  wasn't  in  the  least  alarmed.  Why  should  he  be? 
He  had  come  to  do  this  stranger  a  favor  and  no  one  else 
except  McGuire  could  know  of  the  large  sum  of  money 
in  his  possession.  The  trees  were  his  friends.  Peter's 
thoughts  turned  back  again,  as  they  always  did  when 
his  mind  was  at  the  mercy  of  his  imagination.  What  was 
the  use  of  it  all?  Honor,  righteousness,  pride,  straight 
living,  the  ambition  to  do,  to  achieve  something  real  by 
his  own  efforts — to  what  end?  He  knew  that  he  could 
have  been  living  snugly  in  London  now,  married  to  the 
Princess  Galitzin,  drifting  with  the  current  in  luxury 
and  ease  down  the  years,  enjoying  those  things 

Heigho !  Peter  sat  up  and  shrugged  the  vision  off.  He 
must  not  be  thinking  back.  It  wouldn't  do.  The  new 
life  was  here.  Novaya  Jezn.  Like  the  seedling  from  the 
twisted  oak,  he  was  going  to  grow  straight  and  true — to 
be  himself,  the  son  of  his  mother,  who  had  died  with  a 
prayer  on  her  lips  that  Peter  might  not  be  what  his 
father  had  been.  Thus  far,  he  had  obeyed  her.  He  had 
grown  straight,  true  to  the  memory  of  that  prayer. 

Yes,  life  was  good.  He  tossed  away  his  cigarette, 
ground  it  into  the  ground  with  his  heel,  then  lay  back 
against  the  tree,  drinking  in  great  drafts  of  the  clean 
night  air.  The  forest  was  so  quiet  that  he  could  hear 
the  distant  tinkle  of  Cedar  Creek  down  beyond  the  Cabin. 
The  time  was  now  well  after  eleven.  What  if  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy failed  to  appear?  And  how  long  must ? 

A  tiny  sound  close  at  hand,  clear,  distinct.  Peter  took 
a  chance  and  called  out, 

"Is  that  you,  Hawk  Kennedy?" 

Silence  and  then  a  repetition  of  the  sound  a  little  louder 
162 


"HAWK" 


now  and  from  directly  overhead.    Peter  rose,  peering  up- 
ward in  amazement. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  said  a  low  voice  among  the  leaves 
above  him. 

And  presently  a  foot  appeared,  followed  by  legs  and  a 
body,  emerging  from  the  gloom  above.  Peter  threw  the 
light  of  his  torch  up  into  the  tree. 

"Hey!     Cut  that,"  commanded  a  voice  sharply. 

And  Peter  obeyed.  In  a  moment  a  shape  swung  down 
and  stood  beside  him.  After  the  glare  of  the  torch  Peter 
couldn't  make  out  the  face  under  the  brim  of  the  cap,  but 
he  could  see  that  it  wore  a  mustache  and  short  growth  of 
beard.  In  size,  the  stranger  was  quite  as  tall  as  Peter. 

Hawk  Kennedy  stood  for  a  moment  listening  intently 
and  Peter  was  so  astonished  at  the  extraordinary  mode  of 
his  entrance  on  the  scene  that  he  did  not  speak. 

"You're  from  McGuire?"  asked  the  man  shortly. 

"Yes." 

"Why  didn't  he  come  himself?" 

The  voice  was  gruff,  purposely  so,  Peter  thought,  but 
there  was  something  about  it  vaguely  reminiscent. 

"Answer  me.    Why  didn't  he  come?" 

Peter  laughed. 

"He  didn't  tell  me  why.  Any  more  than  you'd  tell  me 
why  you've  been  up  this  tree." 

"I'm  takin'  no  chances  this  trip.  I've  been  watchin* 
— listenin%"  said  the  other  grimly.  "Well,  what's  the 
answer?  And  who — who  the  devil  are  you?" 

The  bearded  visage  was  thrust  closer  to  Peter's  as 
though  in  uncertainty,  but  accustomed  as  both  men  now 
were  to  the  darkness,  neither  could  make  out  the  face  of 
the  other. 

"I'm  McGuire's  superintendent.  He  sent  me  here  to 
meet  you — to  bring  you  something " 

"Ah — he  comes  across.     Good.     Where  is  it?'* 
163 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"In  my  pocket,"  said  Peter  coolly,  "but  he  told  me  to 
tell  you  first  not  to  forget  the  blood  on  the  knife,  Hawk 
Kennedy." 

The  man  recoiled  a  step. 

"The  blood  on  the  knife,"  he  muttered.  And  then, 
"McGuire  asked  you  to  say  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Anything  else?" 

"No.    That's  all." 

Another  silence  and  then  the  demand  in  a  rough  tone, 

"Well,  give  me  the  money!" 

Impolite  beggar!  What  was  there  about  this  shadow 
that  suggested  to  Peter  the  thought  that  this  whole  in- 
cident had  happened  before?  That  this  man  belonged  to 
another  life  that  Peter  had  lived?  Peter  shrugged  off 
the  illusion,  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  the 
envelope  containing  the  bills. 

"You'd  better  count  it,"  said  Peter,  as  the  envelope 
changed  hands. 

"It's  not  'phoney' ?"  asked  Hawk's  voice  sus- 
piciously. 

"Phoney?" 

"Fake  money ?" 

"No.    I  got  it  in  New  York  myself  yesterday." 

"Oh ."     There  was  a  silence  in  which  the  shade 

stood  uncertainly  fingering  the  package,  peering  into  the 
bushes  around  him  and  listening  intently.  And  then, 
abruptly, 

"I  want  to  see  the  color  of  it.     Switch  on  your  light." 

Peter  obeyed.    "You'd  better,"  he  said. 

In  the  glow  of  lamp  Hawk  Kennedy  bent  forward,  his 
face  hidden  by  his  cap  brim,  fingering  the  bills,  and  Peter 
saw  for  the  first  time  that  his  left  hand  held  an  auto- 
matic which  covered  Peter  now,  as  it  had  covered  him 
from  the  first  moment  of  the  interview. 
164 


"HAWK" 


"Five  hundreds — eh,"  growled  Kennedy.  "They're  real 
enough,  all  right.  One — two — three — four " 

A  roar  from  the  darkness  and  a  bullet  crashed  into  the 
tree  behind  them.  .  .  .  Another  shot!  Peter's  startled 
finger  relaxed  on  the  button  of  the  torch  and  they  were 
in  darkness.  A  flash  from  the  trees  to  the  right,  the  bul- 
let missing  Peter  by  inches. 

"A  trick !  By !"  said  Hawk's  voice  in  a  fury,  "but 

I'll  get  you  for  this." 

Peter  was  too  quick  for  him.  In  the  darkness  he  jumped 
aside,  striking  Kennedy  with  his  torch,  and  then  closed 
with  the  man,  whose  shot  went  wild.  They  struggled  for 
a  moment,  each  fighting  for  the  possession  of  the  weapon, 
McGuire's  money  ground  under  their  feet,  but  Peter  was 
the  younger  and  the  stronger  and  when  he  twisted  Hawk's 
wrist  the  man  suddenly  relaxed  and  fell,  Peter  on  his 
chest. 

The  reason  for  this  collapse  was  apparent  when  Peter's 
hand  touched  the  moisture  on  Kennedy's  shoulder. 

"Damn  you!"  Hawk  was  muttering,  as  he  struggled 
vainly. 

Events  had  followed  so  rapidly  that  Peter  hadn't  had 
time  to  think  of  anything  but  his  own  danger.  He  had 
acted  with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  which  was 
almost  quicker  than  his  thought,  but  as  he  knew  now  what 
had  happened  he  realized  that  he,  too,  had  been  tricked 
by  McGuire  and  that  the  murderous  volley  directed  at 
Hawk  Kennedy  had  come  perilously  near  doing  for  him- 
self. With  the  calm  which  followed  the  issue  of  his  strug- 
gle with  Kennedy,  came  a  dull  rage  at  McGuire  for  plac- 
ing him  in  such  danger,  which  only  showed  his  employer's 
desperate  resolve  and  his  indifference  to  Peter's  fate.  For 
Hawk  Kennedy  had  been  within  his  rights  in  supposing 
Peter  to  be  concerned  in  the  trick  and  only  the  miracle  of 
the  expiring  torch  which  had  blinded  the  intruder  had 
165 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


saved  Peter  from  the  fate  intended  for  Hawk.  Peter  un- 
derstood now  the  meaning  of  McGuire's  explicit  instruc- 
tions and  the  meaning  of  the  changing  of  the  guards. 
The  old  man  had  hoped  to  kill  his  enemy  with  one  shot 
and  save  himself  the  recurrence  of  his  terror.  What  had 
become  of  him  now?  There  was  no  sound  among  the 
bushes  or  any  sign  of  him.  He  had  slipped  away  like  the 
poltroon  that  he  was,  leaving  Peter  to  his  fate. 

"Damn  you!"  Hawk  muttered  again.  "What  did  you 
want  to  come  meddling  for!" 

The  man  couldn't  be  dangerously  hurt  if  he  possessed 
the  power  of  invective  and  so,  having  possessed  himself  of 
Hawk's  automatic,  Peter  got  off  his  chest  and  fumbled 
around  for  the  electric  torch. 

"It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  lie  there  cursing  me.  Get 
up,  if  you're  able  to." 

"Got  me  in  the  shoulder,"  muttered  the  man. 

"And  he  might  have  gotten  me,"  said  Peter,  "which 
would  have  been  worse." 

"You  mean — you  didn't — know,"  groaned  Hawk,  get- 
ting up  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"No.    I  didn't,"  replied  Peter. 

He  had  found  the  torch  now  and  was  flashing  it  around 
on  the  ground  while  he  picked  up  the  scattered  money. 

"I'll  fix  him  for  this,"  groaned  the  stranger. 

Peter  glanced  at  him. 

"His  men  will  be  down  here  in  a  moment.  You'd  better 
be  getting  up." 

"I'm  not  afraid.  They  can't  do  anything1  to  me. 
They'd  better  leave  me  alone.  McGuire  don't  want  me 
to  talk.  But  I'll  squeal  if  they  bother  me."  Peter  was 
aware  that  the  man  was  watching  him  as  he  picked  up  the 
bills  and  heard  him  ask  haltingly,  "What  are  you — go- 
ing to  do — with  that  money?" 
166 


"HAWK" 


"My  orders  were  to  give  it  to  you.  Don't  you  want 
it?" 

Peter  turned  and  for  the  first  time  flashed  the  lamp 
full  in  the  injured  man's  face.  Even  then  Peter  didn't 
recognize  him,  but  he  saw  Hawk  Kennedy's  eyes  open  wide 
as  he  stared  at  Peter. 

"Who ?"  gasped  the  man.     And  then,  "You  here! 

'Cre  nom!    It's  Pete,  the  waiter !" 

Peter  started  back  in  astonishment. 

"Jim  Coast!"  he  said. 

Hawk  Kennedy  chuckled  and  scrambled  to  his  feet, 
halfway  between  a  laugh  and  a  groan. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!" 

Peter  was  still  staring  at  him,  the  recovered  bills  loose 
in  his  hand.  Jim  Coast  thrust  out  an  arm  for  them. 

"The  money,"  he  demanded.     "The  money,  Pete." 

Without  a  word  Peter  handed  it  to  him.  It  was  none 
of  his.  Coast  counted  the  bills,  the  blood  dripping  from 
his  fingers  and  soiling  them,  but  he  wiped  them  off  with 
a  dirty  handkerchief  and  put  them  away  into  his  pocket. 
Blood  money,  Peter  thought,  and  rightly  named. 

"And  now,  mon  gars,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'd 
like  you  to  take  me  to  some  place  where  we  can  tie  up 
this  hole  in  my  shoulder." 

This  was  like  Coast's  impudence.  He  had  regained  his 
composure  again  and,  in  spite  of  the  pain  he  was  suffer- 
ing, had  become  his  proper  self,  the  same  Jim  Coast  who 
had  bunked  with  Peter  on  the  Bermudian,  full  of  smirking 
assertiveness  and  sinister  suggestion.  Peter  was  too  full 
of  astonishment  to  make  any  comment,  for  it  was  difficult 
to  reconcile  the  thought  of  Jim  Coast  with  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy, and  yet  there  he  was,  the  terror  of  Black  Rock 
House  revealed. 

"Well,  Pete,"  he  growled,  "goin'  to  be  starin'  at  me  all 
night?" 

167 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"You'd  better  be  off,"  said  Peter  briefly. 

"Why?" 

"They'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  You've  got  your 
money." 

"Let  *em  come.  They'll  have  to  take  me  to  Mc- 
Guire " 

"Or  the  lock-up  at  Egg  Harbor " 

"All  right.  I'll  go.  But  when  I  open  my  mouth  to 
speak,  McGuire  will  wish  that  Hell  would  open  for  him." 
And  then,  "See  here,  Pete,  do  you  know  anything  of 
what's  between  me  and  McGuire?" 

"No — except  that  he  fears  you." 

"Very  well.  If  you're  workin'  for  him  you'll  steer 
these  guys  away  from  me.  I  mean  it.  Now  think  quick." 

Peter  did.  Angry  as  he  was  at  McGuire,  he  knew  that 
Jim  Coast  meant  what  he  said  and  that  he  would  make 
trouble.  Also  Peter's  curiosity  knew  no  subsidence. 

"You  go  to  my  cabin.  It's  hidden  in  the  woods  down 
this  path  at  the  right " 

"That's  where  you  live,  is  it?" 

"Yes.  You'll  find  water  there  and  a  towel  on  the 
washstand.  I'll  be  there  to  help  you  when  I  sheer  these 
men  off." 

Coast  walked  a  few  steps  and  then  turned  quickly. 

"No  funny  business,  Pete." 

"No.  You  can  clear  out  if  you  like.  I  don't  care.  I 
only  thought  if  you  were  badly  hurt " 

"Oh,  all  right.     Thanks." 

Peter  watched  the  dim  silhouette  merge  into  the  shad- 
ows and  disappear.  Then  flashed  his  light  here  and 
there  that  the  men  who  must  be  approaching  now  might 
be  guided  to  him.  In  a  moment  they  were  crashing 
through  the  undergrowth,  Jesse  and  Andy  in  the  lead. 

"What's  the  shootin'?"  queried  Jesse  Brown  breath- 
lessly. 

168 


"HAWK" 


"A  man  in  the  woods.  I'm  looking  for  him,"  said  Peter. 
"He  got  away." 

"Well,  don't  it  beat  Hell " 

"But  it  may  be  a  plan  to  get  you  men  away  from  the 
house,"  said  Peter  as  the  thought  came  to  him.  "Did  you 
see  McGuire?" 

"McGuire!     No.     What ?" 

"All  right.  You'd  better  hurry  back.  See  if  he's  all 
right.  I'll  get  along " 

"Not  if  you  go  flashin'  that  thing.  I  could  a  got  ye 
with  my  rifle  as  easy  as " 

"Well,  never  mind.  Get  back  to  the  house.  I'll  poke 
around  here  for  a  while.  Hurry !" 

In  some  bewilderment  they  obeyed  him  and  Peter  turned 
his  footstep  toward  the  Cabin. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ANCIENT  HISTORY 

PETER  wasn't  at  all  certain  that  he  had  done 
the  right  thing.  One  event  had  followed  another 
with  such  startling  rapidity  that  there  hadn't 
been  time  to  deliberate.  Jim  Coast  was  wounded,  how 
badly  Peter  didn't  know,  but  the  obvious  duty  was  to 
give  him  first  aid  and  sanctuary  until  Peter  could  get  a 
little  clearer  light  on  Coast's  possibilities  for  evil.  None 
of  this  was  Peter's  business.  He  had  done  what  Mc- 
Guire  had  asked  him  to  do  and  had  nearly  gotten  killed 
for  his  pains.  Two  fights  already  and  he  had  come  to 
Black  Rock  to  find  peace ! 

In  his  anger  at  McGuire's  trick  he  was  now  indifferent 
as  to  what  would  happen  to  the  old  man.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  Jim  Coast  held  all  the  cards  and,  unless  he 
died,  would  continue  to  hold  them.  It  was  evident  that 
McGuire,  having  failed  in  accomplishing  the  murder,  had 
placed  himself  in  a  worse  position  than  before,  for  Coast 
was  not  one  to  relax  or  to  forgive,  and  if  he  had  gotten 
his  five  thousand  dollars  so  easily  as  this,  he  would  be 
disposed  to  make  McGuire  pay  more  heavily  now.  Peter 
knew  nothing  of  the  merits  of  the  controversy,  but  it 
seemed  obvious  that  the  two  principals  in  the  affair  were 
both  tarred  with  the  same  stick.  Arcades  Ambo.  He  was 
beginning  to  believe  that  Coast  was  the  more  agreeable  vil- 
lain of  the  two.  At  least  he  had  made  no  bones  about 
the  fact  of  his  villainy. 

Peter  found  Coast  stripped  to  the  waist,  sitting  in  a 
170 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


chair  by  the  table,  bathing  his  wounded  shoulder.  But 
the  hemorrhage  had  stopped  and  Peter  saw  that  the  bul- 
let had  merely  grazed  the  deltoid,  leaving  a  clean  wound, 
which  could  be  successfully  treated  by  first  aid  devices. 
So  he  found  his  guest  a  drink  of  whisky,  which  put  a 
new  heart  into  him,  then  tore  up  a  clean  linen  shirt,  strips 
from  which  he  soaked  in  iodine  and  bandaged  over  the 
arm  and  shoulder. 

Meanwhile  Coast  was  talking. 

"Well,  mon  vieux,  it's  a  little  world,  ain't  it?  To  think 
I'd  find  you,  my  old  bunkie,  Pete,  the  waiter,  out  here  in 
the  wilds,  passin'  the  buck  for  Mike  McGuire !  Looks  like 
the  hand  o'  Fate,  doesn't  it?  Superintendent,  eh?  Some 
job!  Twenty  thousand  acres — if  he's  got  an  inch.  An* 
me  thinkin'  all  the  while  you'd  be  slingin'  dishes  in  a 
New  York  chop  house!" 

"I  studied  forestry  in  Germany  once,'*  said  Peter  with 
a  smile,  as  he  wound  the  bandage. 

"Right  y'are!  Mebbe  you  told  me.  I  don't  know. 
Mebbe  there's  a  lot  o'  things  you  didn't  tell  me.  Mebbe 
there's  a  lot  of  things  7  didn't  tell  you.  But  I  ought  to 
'a'  known  a  globe  trotter  like  you  never  would  'a*  stayed 
a  waiter.  A  waiter!  Nom  de  Dieu!  Remember  that 
(sanguine)  steward  on  the  Bermudian?  Oily,  fat  little 
beef-eater  with  the  gold  teeth?  Tried  to  make  us  'divy' 
on  the  tips?  But  we  beat  him  to  it,  Pete,  when  we  took 
French  leave.  H-m!  I'm  done  with  waitin*  now,  Pete. 
So  are  you,  I  reckon.  Gentleman  of  leisure,  /  am!" 

"There  you  are,"  said  Peter  as  he  finished  the  bandage, 
"but  you'll  have  to  get  this  wound  dressed  somewhere 
to-morrow." 

"Right  you  are.  A  hospital  in  Philly  will  do  the  trick. 
And  McGuire  pays  the  bill." 

Jim  Coast  got  up  and  moved  his  arm  cautiously. 

"Mighty  nice  of  you,  Pete.  That's  fine.  I'll  make  him 
171 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


pay  through  the  nose  for  this."  And  then  turning  his 
head  and  eyeing  Peter  narrowly,  "You  say  McGuire  told 
you  nothin'!" 

"Nothing.    It's  none  of  my  affair.'* 

The  ex-waiter  laughed.  "He  knows  his  business.  Quiet 
as  death,  ain't  he?  He's  got  a  right  to  be.  And  scared. 
He's  got  a  right  to  be  scared  too.  I'll  scare  him  worse 
before  I'm  through  with  him." 

He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  then,  "Funny  to  find  you 
guardin'  him  against  me.  House  all  locked — men  with 
guns  all  over  the  place.  He  wanted  one  of  those  guys  to 
kill  me,  didn't  he?  But  I'm  too  slick  for  him.  No  locked 
doors  can  keep  out  what's  scarin'  Mike  McGuire " 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  held  up  his  empty  glass. 
"Another  drink  of  the  whisky,  mon  gars,  and  I'm  yer 
friend  for  life." 

Peter  was  still  curious,  so  he  obeyed  and  after  cleaning 
up  the  mess  they  had  made  he  sank  into  a  chair,  studying 
the  worn  features  of  his  old  companion.  He  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  pull  in  the  heavy  shutter  of  the  window 
which  had  been  opened  and  to  lock  the  door.  Peter  did 
not  relish  the  idea  of  a  murder  committed  in  this  cabin. 

"Not  apt  to  come  now,  are  they,  Pete?  Well,  let  'em," 
he  answered  himself  with  a  shrug.  "But  they  won't  if 
McGuire  has  his  way.  Murder  is  the  only  thing  that  will 
suit  McGuire's  book.  He  can't  do  that — not  with  wit- 
nesses around.  Ain't  he  the  slick  one,  though?  I  was 
watchin'  for  just  what  happened.  That's  why  I  stayed 
in  the  tree  so  long — listenin'.  He  must  of  slipped  in  like 
a  snake.  How  he  did  it  I  don't  know.  I'm  a  worse  snake 
than  he  is  but  I  always  rattle  before  I  strike." 

He  laughed  again  dryly. 

"I've  got  him  rattled  all  O.  K.  Mebbe  he'd  of  shot 
straighter  if  he  hadn't  been.  He  used  to  could — dead 
shot.  But  I  reckon  his  talents  are  runnin'  different  now. 
172 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


Millions  he  has  they  say,  mon  vieux,  millions.  And  I'll 
get  my  share  of  'em." 

Jim  Coast  smoked  for  a  moment  in  contented  silence. 

"See  here,  Pete.  I  like  you.  Always  did.  Straight  as 
a  string — you  are.  You've  done  me  a  good  turn  to- 
night. You  might  of  put  me  out — killed  me  when  you 
had  me  down " 

"I'm  no  murderer,  Jim." 

"Right.  Nor  I  ain't  either.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  a 
hair  of  McGuire's  head.  Every  one  of  'em  is  precious  as 
refined  gold'.  I  want  him  to  live — to  keep  on  livin'  and 
makin'  more  money  because  the  more  money  he's  got  the 
more  I'll  get— see." 

"Blackmail,"  said  Peter  shortly. 

Coast  glanced  at  him,  shrugged  and  laughed. 

"Call  it  that  if  you  like.  It's  a  dirty  word,  but  I'll 
stand  for  it,  seein'  it's  you.  Blackmail!  What's  a 
waiter's  tip  but  blackmail  for  good  service?  What's  a 
lawyer's  fee  from  a  corporation  but  money  paid  by  men 
to  keep  them  out  of  the  jail?  What's  a  breach  of  prom- 
ise case?  Blackmail — legal  blackmail.  I'm  doin'  nothin' 
less  an'  nothin'  more  than  a  million  other  men — but  I'm 
not  workin'  with  a  lawyer.  I'll  turn  the  trick  alone.  What 
would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that  half  of  every  dollar  Mc- 
Guire  has  got  is  mine — a  full  half — to  say  nothin'  of  pay- 
ment for  the  years  I  was  wanderin'  an*  grubbin'  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  while  he  was  livin'  easy.  Oh! 
You're  surprised.  You'd  better  be.  For  that's  the  God's 
truth,  mon  ami." 

"You  mean — he — he "  Peter's  credulity  was 

strained  and  he  failed  to  finish  his  query. 

"Oh,  you  don't  believe?    Well,  you  needn't.    But  there's 

no  blackmail  when  you  only  take  what  belongs  to  you. 

The  money — the  money  that  made  his  millions  was  as 

much  mine  as  his.     I'm  going  to  have  my   share  with 

173 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


compound  interest  for  fifteen  years — and  perhaps  a  bit 
more." 

"You  surprise  me.  But  it  seems  that  if  there's  any 
justice  in  your  claim,  you  could  establish  it  legally." 

Jim  Coast  laughed  again. 

"There's  a  quicker — a  safer  way  than  that.  I'm  takin' 
it."  He  filled  his  glass  again  and  went  on,  leaning  far 
over  the  table  toward  Peter.  "Voyons,  Pete.  When  we 
came  ashore,  I  made  you  an  offer  to  play  my  game.  You 
turned  me  down.  It's  not  too  late  to  change  your  mind. 
The  old  man  trusts  you  or  he  wouldn't  of  sent  you  out 
with  that  money.  I  may  need  some  help  with  this  busi- 
ness and  you're  fixed  just  right  to  lend  me  a  hand.  Throw 
in  with  me,  do  what  I  want,  and  I'll  see  that  you're  fixed 
for  life." 

Peter  shook  his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side. 

"No,  Jim.    He  pays  me  well.     I'm  no  traitor." 

"H-m.  Traitor!"  he  sneered.  "He  wasn't  overpar- 
ticular about  you.  He  might  of  killed  you  or  7  might  of, 
if  you  hadn't  been  too  damn  quick  for  me.  What  do  you 
think  Mike  McGuire  cares  about  you?"  he  laughed  bit- 
terly. 

"Nothing.     But  that  makes  no  difference.     I " 

A  loud  jangle  of  a  bell  from  the  corner  and  Jim  Coast 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"The  telephone,"  explained  Peter,  indicating  the  in- 
strument. "That's  McGuire  now."  He  rose  and  moved 
toward  it,  but  Coast  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Worried,  eh?"  he  said  with  a  grin.  "Wants  to  know 

what's  happened!  All  right.  Tell  him— tell  the ." 

And  then,  as  Peter  released  himself,  "Wait  a  minute.  Tell 
him  you've  got  me  here,"  laughed  Coast,  "a  prisoner. 
Tell  him  I'm  talking.  Ask  for  instructions.  He'll  tell 
you  what  to  do  with  me,  damn  quick,"  he  sneered. 

Peter  waited  a  moment,  thinking,  while  the  bell  tinkled 
174 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


again,  and  then  took  down  the  receiver.  He  was  in  no 
mood  to  listen  to  McGuire. 

"Hello— Yes,  this  is  Nichols.  ...  All  right,  yes. 
Shot  at  from  the  dark — while  paying  the  money.  You  hit 
Hawk  Kennedy  in  the  shoulder.  .  .  .  Yes,  you.  I'm  no 
fool,  McGuire.  .  .  .  He's  here — at  the  Cabin.  I've  just 

fixed  his  shoulder .  All  right .  What  shall  I  do 

with  him ?  Yes — Yes,  he's  talking.  .  .  .  Let  him 

go !  Hello !  Let  him  go,  you  say  ?  Yes " 

"Let  me  get  to  him ,"  growled  Coast,  pushing  close 

to  the  transmitter.  "Hello — Mike  McGuire — hello " 

"He's  gone,"  said  Peter. 

« 'Let  him  go,'  "  sneered  Coast.  "You'd  bet  he'd  let 
me  go."  Then  he  looked  at  Peter  and  laughed.  "He's 
scared  all  right— beat  it  like  a  cottontail.  Seems  a  shame 
to  take  the  money,  Pete — a  real  shame." 

He  laughed  uproariously,  then  sauntered  easily  over 
to  the  table,  took  another  of  Peter's  cigarettes  and  sank 
into  the  easy  chair  again.  Peter  eyed  him  in  silence.  He 
was  an  unwelcome  guest  but  he  hadn't  yet  gratified  Peter's 
curiosity. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"Me?"  Coast  inhaled  Peter's  cigarette  luxuriously, 
and  smiled.  "I'm  goin'  West,  pronto — to  get  my  facts 
straight — all  at  the  expense  of  the  party  of  the  first 
part.  I  might  stop  off  at  the  Grand  Canon  first  for  the 
view.  I  need  a  rest,  Pete.  I  ain't  as  young  as  I  was — 
or  I  mightn't  of  let  you  put  me  out  so  easy  to-night. 
I'm  glad  of  that,  though.  Wouldn't  like  to  of  done 
you  hurt " 

"And  then ?"  asked  Peter  steadily. 

"Then?     Oh,  I'll  beat  it  down  to  Bisbee  and  ask  a 

few  questions.  I  just  want  to  hook  up  a  few  things  I  don't 

know  with  the  things  I  do  know.     I'll  travel  light  but 

comfortable.     Five  thousand  dollars  makes   a  heap  of 

175 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


difference  in  your  point  of  view — and  other  people's.  I'll 
be  an  eastern  millionaire  lookin'  for  investments.  And 
what  I  won't  know  about  Jonathan  K.  McGuire,  alias 
Mike  McGuire — won't  be  worth  knowin'."  He  broke  off 
and  his  glance  caught  the  interested  expression  on  the 
face  of  his  host. 

"H-m.     Curious,  ain't  you,  Pete?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  frankly.  "I  am.  Of  course  it's 
none  of  my  business,  but " 

"But  you'd  like  to  know,  just  the  same.  I  get  you." 
He  flicked  off  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  and  picked  up  his 

whisky  glass.  "Well ,"  he  went  on,  "I  don't  see  why 

I  shouldn't  tell  you — some  of  it — that  is.  It  won't  do 
any  harm  for  you  to  know  the  kind  of  skunk  you're 
workin'  for.  There's  some  of  it  that  nobody  on  God's 
earth  will  ever  know  but  me  and  Mike  McGuire — unless 
he  slips  up  on  one  of  his  payments,  and  then  everybody's 
goin'  to  know.  Everybody — but  his  daughter  first  of 
all." 

Coast  was  silent  a  long  moment  while  he  drained  the 
whisky  and  slowly  set  the  glass  down  upon  the  table. 
The  shadows  upon  his  face  were  unpleasant,  darkened  per- 
ceptibly as  they  marked  the  years  his  thoughts  followed, 
and  the  lines  at  his  lips  and  nostrils  became  more  deeply 
etched  in  bitterness  and  ugly  resolve. 

"It  was  down  in  the  San  Luis  valley  I  first  met  up 
with  Mike  McGuire.  He  was  born  in  Ireland,  of  poor 
but  honest  parents,  as  the  books  tell  us.  He  changed 
his  name  to  'Jonathan  K.'  when  he  made  his  first  'stake.' 
That  meant  he  was  comin'  up  in  the  world — see?  Me 
and  Mike  worked  together  up  in  Colorado,  punchin'  cat- 
tle, harvestin',  ranchin'  generally.  We  were  'buddies,' 
man  gars,  like  you  an'  me,  eatin',  sleepin'  together  as 
thick  as  thieves.  He  had  a  family  somewhere,  same  as 
me — the  wife  had  a  little  money  but  her  old  man  made 
176 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


him  quit — some  trouble.  After  awhile  we  got  tired  of 
workin*  for  wages,  grub  staked,  and  beat  it  for  the 
mountains.  That  was  back  in  nineteen  one  or  two,  I 
reckon.  We  found  a  vein  up  above  Wagon  Wheel  Gap. 
It  looked  good  and  we  staked  out  claims  and  worked  it, 
hardly  stoppin'  to  eat  or  sleep."  Coast  stopped  with  a 
gasp  and  a  shrug.  "Well,  the  long  an'  short  of  that, 
mon  viewx,  was  a  year  of  hard  work  with  only  a  thou- 
sand or  so  apiece  to  show  for  it.  It  was  only  a  pocket. 
Hell!"  He  broke  off  in  disgust  and  spat  into  the  fire- 
place. "Don't  talk  to  me  about  your  gold  mines.  There 
ain't  any  such  animal.  Well,  Mike  saved  his.  I  spent 
mine.  Faro.  You  know — an'  women.  Then  I  got  hurt. 
I  was  as  good  as  dead — but  I  pulled  through.  I  ain't 
easy  to  kill.  When  I  came  around,  I  'chored'  for  a  while, 
doin'  odd  jobs  where  I  could  get  'em  and  got  a  little 
money  together  and  went  to  Pueblo.  When  I  struck  town 
I  got  pretty  drunk  and  busted  a  faro  bank.  I  never  did 
have  any  luck  when  I  was  sober." 

"Yes,  you've  told  me  about  that,"  said  Peter. 

"So  I  did — on  the  Bermudian.  Well,  it  was  at  Pueblo 
I  met  up  with  Mike  McGuire,  and  we  beat  it  down  into 
Arizona  where  the  copper  was.  Bisbee  was  only  a  row  of 
wooden  shacks,  but  we  got  some  backin',  bought  an  out- 
fit and  went  out  prospectin'  along  the  Mexican  border. 
And  what  with  'greasers'  and  thievin'  redskins  it  was 
some  job  in  those  days.  But  we  made  friends  all  right 
enough  and  found  out  some  of  the  things  we  wanted  to 
know. 

"Now,  Pete,  if  I  was  to  tell  you  all  that  went  on  in 
that  long  trail  into  the  Gila  Desert  and  what  happened 
when  we  got  what  we  went  for,  you'd  know  as  much  as 
I  do.  You'd  know  enough  to  hold  up  Mike  McGuire 
yourself  if  you'd  a  mind  to.  This  is  where  the  real 
story  stops.  What  happened  in  between  is  my  secret 
177 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


and  Mike  McGuire's.  We  found  the  mine  we  were  lookin' 

for.  .  .  .  That's  sure How  we  got  it  you'll  never 

know.  But  we  got  it.  And  here's  where  the  real  story 
begins  again.  We  were  miles  out  in  the  Gila  Desert  and 
if  ever  there's  a  Hell  on  earth,  it's  there.  Sand,  rocks, 
rocks  and  sand  and  the  sun.  It  was  Hell  with  the  cover 
off  and  no  mistake !  No  water  within  a  hundred  miles. 

"Now,  this  is  where  the  fine  Eyetalian  hand  of  Mike 
McGuire  shows  itself.  We  were  rich.  Any  fool  with 
half  an  eye  could  see  that.  The  place  was  lousy — fairly 

lousy !  It  was  ours ,"  Coast's  brow  darkened  and  his 

eyes  glittered  strangely  as  a  darting  demon  of  the  past 
got  behind  them.  "Yes — ours.  Sacre  bleu!  Any  man 

who  went  through  what  we  did  deserved  it,  by  G ! 

We  were  rich.  There  was  plenty  enough  for  two,  but 
McGuire  didn't  think  so.  And  here's  what  he  does  to 
me.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  while  I'm  asleep  he 
sneaks  away  as  neat  as  you  please,  with  the  horses  and 
the  pack-mules  and  the  water,  leavin'  me  alone  with  all 
the  money  in  the  world,  and  a  devourin*  thirst,  more  than 
a  hundred  miles  from  nowhere." 

"Murder,"  muttered  Peter. 

Coast  nodded.  "You  bet  you.  Murder.  Nothin'  less. 
Oh,  he  knew  what  Tie  was  about  all  right.  And  I  saw  it 
quick.  Death!  That's  what  it  meant.  Slow  but  sure. 
Hadn't  I  seen  the  bones  bleaching  all  along  the  trail? 
He  left  me  there  to  die.  He  thought  I  would  die.  Dios! 
That  thirst !"  Coast  reached  for  the  pitcher  and  splashed 
rather  than  poured  a  glass  of  water  which  he  gulped  down 
avidly*  "There  was  nothin'  for  it  but  to  try  afoot  for 
Tucson,  which  was  due  east.  Every  hour  I  waited 
would  of  made  me  an  hour  nearer  to  bein'  a  mummy.  So 
I  set  out  through  the  hot  sand,  the  sun  burnin'  through 
me,  slowly  parchin'  my  blood.  My  tongue  swelled.  I 
must  of  gone  in  circles.  Days  passed — nights  when  I 
178 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


lay  gaspin'  on  my  back,  like  a  fish  out  of  water,  tryin' 
to  suck  moisture  out  of  dry  air.  .  .  .  Then  the 
red  sun  again — up  over  the  edge  of  that  furnace, 
mockin*  at  me.  I  was  as  good  as  dead  and  I  knew  it. 
Only  the  mummy  of  me,  parched  black,  stumbled  on, 
fallin',  strugglin'  up  again,  fallin'  at  last,  bitin'  at  the 
sand  like  a  mad  dog.  .  .  . 

"Horrible,"  muttered  Peter. 

"It  was.  I  reckon  I  died — the  soul  of  me,  or  what  was 
left  of  it.  I  came  to  life  under  the  starlight,  with  a 
couple  of  'greasers'  droppin*  water  on  my  tongue.  They 
brought  me  around,  but  I  was  out  of  my  head  for  a  week. 
I  couldn't  talk  the  lingo  anyhow.  I  just  went  with  'em 
like  a  child.  There  wasn't  anything  else  to  do.  Lucky 
they  didn't  kill  me.  I  guess  I  wasn't  worth  killin'.  We 
went  South.  They  were  makin'  for  Hermosillo.  Revo- 
lutionists. They  took  all  my  money — about  three  hun- 
dred dollars.  But  it  was  worth  it.  They'd  saved  my 
life.  But  I  couldn't  go  back  now,  even  if  I  wanted  to. 
I  had  no  money,  nor  any  way  of  gettin'  any." 

Jim  Coast  leaned  forward,  glowering  at  the  rag  car- 
pet. 

"But  I — I  didn't  want  to  go  back  just  then.  The  fear 
of  God  was  in  me.  I'd  looked  into  Hell." 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"Then  I  joined  the  'greasers'  against  Diaz.  I've  told 
you  about  that.  And  the  'Rurales'  cleaned  us  up  all 
right.  A  girl  saved  my  life.  Instead  of  shootin'  me 
against  a  mud  wall,  they  put  me  to  work  on  a  railroad. 
I  was  there  three  years.  I  escaped  at  last  and  reached 
the  coast,  where  I  shipped  for  South  America.  It  was 
the  only  way  out,  but  all  the  while  I  was  thinkin'  of 
Mike  McGuire  and  the  copper  mine.  You  know  the  rest, 
Pete — the  Argentine  deal  that  might  of  made  me  rich 
179 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


an'  how  it  fell  through.  Don't  it  beat  Hell  how  the 
world  bites  the  under  dog!" 

"But  why  didn't  you  go  back  to  America  and  fight 
your  claim  with  McGuire?"  asked  Peter,  aware  of  the 
sinister,  missing  passage  in  the  story. 

Coast  shot  a  sharp  glance  at  his  questioner. 

"There  were  two  reasons — one  of  which  you  won't 
know.  The  other  was  that  I  couldn't.  I  was  on  the 
beach  an'  not  too  popular.  The  only  ships  out  of  Buenos 
Aires  were  for  London.  That  was  the  easiest  way  back 
to  America  anyhow.  So  I  shipped  as  a  cattle  hand.  And 
there  you  are.  I  lived  easy  in  London.  That's  me. 
Easy  come  easy  go.  There  it  was  I  wrote  a  man  I  knew 
out  in  Bisbee — the  feller  that  helped  stake  us — and  he 
answered  me  that  McGuire  was  dead,  and  that  the  mine 
was  a  flivver — too  far  away  to  work.  You  see  he  must  of 
showed  the  letter  to  McGuire,  and  McGuire  told  him  what 
to  write.  That  threw  me  off  the  track.  I  forgot  him 
and  went  to  France.  .  .  ." 

Coast  paused  while  he  filled  his  glass  again. 

"It  wasn't  until  I  reached  New  York  that  I  found  out 
McGuire  was  alive.  It  was  just  a  chance  while  I  was 
plannin'  another  deal.  I  took  it.  I  hunted  around  the 
brokers'  offices  where  they  sell  copper  stocks.  It  didn't 
take  me  long  to  find  that  my  mine  was  the  'Tarantula.* 
McGuire  had  developed  it  with  capital  from  Denver, 
built  a  narrow  gauge  in.  Then  after  a  while  had  sold  out 
his  share  for  more  than  half  a  million  clear." 

Peter  was  studying  Coast  keenly,  thinking  hard.  But 
the  story  held  with  what  he  already  knew  of  the  man's 
history. 

"That's  when  Mike  McGuire  tacked  the  'Jonathan  K.' 

onto  his  name,"  Coast  went  on.    "And  that  money's  mine, 

the  good  half  of  it.     Figure  it  out  for  yourself.     Say 

five  hundred  thou,  eight  per  cent,  fifteen  years — I  reckon 

180 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


I  could  worry  along  on  that  even  if  he  wouldn't  do  better 
— which  he  will. 

"Well,  Pete — to  shorten  up — I  found  McGuire  was 
here — in  New  York — and  I  laid  for  him.  I  watched  for 
a  while  and  then  one  day  I  got  my  nerve  up  and  tackled 
him  on  the  street.  You  ought  to  of  seen  his  face  when  I 
told  him  who  I  was  and  what  I'd  come  for.  We  were  in 
the  crowd  at  Broadway  and  Wall,  people  all  about  us. 
He  started  the  'high  and  mighty'  stuff  for  a  minute  until 
I  crumpled  him  up  with  a  few  facts.  I  thought  he  was 
goin'  to  have  a  stroke  for  a  minute,  when  I  made  my  brace 
for  the  five  thou — then  he  turned  tail  and  ran  into  the 
crowd  pale  as  death.  I  lost  him  then.  But  it  didn't 
matter.  I'd  find  him  again.  I  knew  where  his  office  was 
— and  his  hotel.  It  was  dead  easy.  But  he  beat  it  down 
here.  It  took  me  awhile  to  pick  up  the  trail.  But  here 
I  am,  Pete — here  I  am — safe  in  harbor  at  last." 

Coast  took  the  bills  out  of  his  pocket  and  slowly 
counted  them  again. 

"And  when  you  come  back  from  the  West,  what  will 
you  do?"  asked  Peter. 

"Oh,  now  you're  talkin',  Pete.  I'm  goin*  to  settle  down 
and  live  respectable.  I  like  this  country  around  here. 
I  came  from  Jersey,  you  know,  in  the  first  place.  I 
might  build  a  nice  place — keep  a  few  horses  and  auto- 
mobiles and  enjoy  my  old  age — run  over  to  gay  Paree 
once  a  year — down  to  Monte  Carlo  in  the  season.  Oh, 
I'd  know  how  to  live  now.  You  bet  you.  I've  seen  'em 
do  it — those  swells.  They  won't  have  anything  on  me. 
I'll  live  like  a  prince " 

"On  blackmail ,"  said  Peter. 

"See  here,  Pete !" 

"I  meant  it."    Peter  had  risen  and  faced  Coast  coolly. 
"Blackmail !    You  can't  tell  me  that  if  you  had  any  legal 
claim  on  McGuire  you  couldn't  prove  it." 
181 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  mightn't  be  able  to ,"  he  shrugged. 

"What  is  McGuire  frightened  about?  Not  about  what 
he  owes  you.  He  could  pay  that  ten  times  over.  It's 
something  else — something  that  happened  out  there  at 
the  mine  that  you  dare  not  tell " 

"That  I  won't  tell,"  laughed  Coast  disagreeably. 

"That  you  dare  not  tell — that  McGuire  dares  not  tell. 
Something  that  has  to  do  with  his  strange  message  about 
the  blood  on  the  knife,  and  your  placard  about  what 
you've  got  holding  over  him " 

"Right  you  are,"  sneered  the  other. 

"It's  dirty  money,  I  tell  you — bloody  money.  I  know 
it.  And  I  know  who  you  are,  Jim  Coast." 

Coast  started  up  and  thrust  the  roll  deep  into  his 
trousers  pocket. 

"You  don't  know  anything,"  he  growled. 

Pe'ter  got  up  too.  His  mind  had  followed  Coast's  ex- 
traordinary story,  and  so  far  as  it  had  gone,  believed  it 
to  be  true.  Peter  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened 
out  there  at  the  mine  in  the  desert,  but  more  than  that 
he  wanted  to  know  how  the  destinies  of  this  man  affected 
Beth.  And  so  the  thought  that  had  been  growing  in  his 
mind  now  found  quick  utterance. 

"I  know  this — that  you've  come  back  to  frighten  Mc- 
Guire, but  you've  also  come  back  to  bring  misery  and 
shame  to  others  who've  lived  long  in  peace  and  happiness 
without  you " 

"What ?"  said  Coast  incredulously. 

"I  know  who  you  are.  You're  Ben  Cameron,"  said 
Peter  distinctly. 

The  effect  of  this  statement  upon  Jim  Coast  was  ex- 
traordinary.    He  started  back  abruptly,  overturning  a 
chair,  and  fell  rather  than  leaned  against  the  bedpost — 
his  eyes  staring  from  a  ghastly  face. 
182 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


"What — what  did — you  say?"  he  gasped  chokingly. 

"You're  Ben  Cameron,"  said  Peter  again. 

Coast  put  the  fingers  of  one  hand  to  his  throat  and 
straightened  slowly,  still  staring  at  Peter.  Then  un- 
easily, haltingly,  he  made  a  sound  in  his  throat  that 
grew  into  a  dry  laugh 

"Me — B-Ben  Cameron !  That's  damn  good.  Me — Ben 
Cameron!  Say,  Pete,  whatever  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"The  way  you  frightened  the  old  woman  at  the  kitchen 
door." 

"Oh!"  Coast  straightened  in  relief.  "I  get  you. 
You've  been  talkin'  to  Jier." 

"Yes.    What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"I — I  just  gave  her  a  message  for  McGuire.  I  reckon 
she  gave  it  to  him." 

"A  message?" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  say  you  don't  know,  Pete.  It  didn't 
fetch  him.  So  I  put  up  the  placard." 

Peter  was  now  more  bewildered  than  Coast.  "Do  you 
deny  that  you're  Ben  Cameron?"  he  asked. 

Coast  pulled  himself  together  and  took  up  his  coat. 

"Deny  it?  Sure!  I'm  not — not  him — not  Ben  Cam- 
eron— not  Ben  Cameron.  Don't  I  know  who  I  am?"  he 
shouted.  Then  he  broke  off  with  a  violent  gesture  and 
took  up  his  cap.  "Enough  of  your  damn  questions,  I 
say.  I've  told  you  what  I've  told  you.  You  can  believe 
it  or  not,  as  you  choose.  I'm  Jim  Coast  to  you  or  Hawk 
Kennedy,  if  you  like,  but  don't  you  go  throwin'  any  more 
of  your  dirty  jokes  my  way.  Understand?" 

Peter  couldn't  understand  but  he  had  had  enough  of 
the  man.  So  he  pointed  toward  the  door. 

"Go,"  he  ordered.    "I've  had  enough  of  you — get  out !" 

Coast  walked  a  few  paces  toward  the  door,  then  paused 
and  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 
IBS 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Oh,  Hell,  Pete.  Don't  let's  you  and  me  quarrel.  You 
gave  me  a  start  back  there.  I'm  sorry.  Of  course,  you 
knew.  You  been  good  to  me  to-night.  I'm  obliged.  I 
need  you  in  my  business.  More'n  ever." 

"No,"  said  Peter. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Suit  yourself,"  said  Coast  with  a 
shrug.  "There's  plenty  of  time.  I'll  be  back  in  a  month 
or  six  weeks.  Think  it  over.  I've  made  you  a  nice  offer 
— real  money — to  help  me  a  bit.  Take  it  or  leave  it,  as 
you  please.  I'll  get  along  without  you,  but  I'd  rather 
have  you  with  me  than  against  me." 

"I'm  neither,"  said  Peter.  "I  want  nothing  to  do  with 
it." 

Coast  shrugged.  "I'm  sorry.  Well,  so  long.  I've 
got  a  horse  back  in  the  dunes.  I'll  take  the  milk  train 
from  Hammonton  to  Philadelphia.  You  won't  tell,  Pete?" 

"No." 

"Good-night." 

Peter  didn't  even  reply.  And  when  the  man  had  gone 
he  opened  the  door  and  windows  to  let  in  the  night  air. 
The  room  had  been  defiled  by  the  man's  very  presence. 
Ben  Cameron?  Beth's  father?  The  thing  seemed  im- 
possible, but  every  fact  in  Peter's  knowledge  pointed  to- 
ward it.  And  yet  what  the  meaning  of  Jim  Coast's 
strange  actions  at  the  mention  of  his  name?  And  what 
were  the  facts  that  Jim  Coast  didn't  tell?  What  had 
happened  at  the  mine  that  was  too  terrible  even  to  speak 
about?  What  was  the  bond  between  these  two  men,  which 
held  the  successful  one  in  terror,  and  the  other  in  silence? 
Something  unspeakably  vile.  A  hideous  pact 

The  telephone  bell  jangled  again.  Peter  rose  and  went 
to  it.  But  he  was  in  no  humor  to  talk  to  McGuire. 

"Hello,"  he  growled.  "Yes— he's  gone.  I  let  him  go. 
You  told  me  to.  ...  Yes,  he  talked — a  long  while.  .  .  . 
No.  He  won't  be  back  for  a  month.  .  .  .  We'll  talk  that 
184 


ANCIENT  HISTORY 


over  later.  .  .  .  No.  Not  to-night.  I'm  going  to  bed. 
.  .  .  No.  Not  until  to-morrow.  I've  had  about  enough 
of  this.  .  .  .  All  right.  Good-night." 

And  Peter  hv.ng  up  the  receiver,  undressed  and  went 
to  bed. 

It  had  been  rather  a  full  day  for  Peter. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CONFESSION 

IN  spite  of  his  perplexities,  Peter  slept  soundly  and 
was  only  awakened  by  the  jangling  of  the  telephone 
bell.  But  Peter  wanted  to  do  a  little  thinking  before 
he  saw  McGuire,  and  he  wanted  to  ask  the  housekeeper 
a  few  questions,  so  he  told  McGuire  that  he  would  see 
him  before  ten  o'clock.  The  curious  part  of  the  tele- 
phone conversation  was  that  McGuire  made  no  mention 
of  the  shooting.  "H-m,"  said  Peter  to  himself  as  he 
hung  up,  "going  to  ignore  that  trifling  incident  alto- 
gether, is  he?  Well,  we'll  see  about  that.  It  doesn't  pay 
to  be  too  clever,  old  cock."  His  pity  for  McGuire  was 
no  more.  At  the  present  moment  Peter  felt  nothing  for 
him  except  an  abiding  contempt  which  could  hardly  be 
modified  by  any  subsequent  revelations. 

Peter  ran  down  to  the  creek  in  his  bath  robe  and  took 
a  quick  plunge,  then  returned,  shaved  and  dressed  while 
his  coffee  boiled,  thinking  with  a  fresh  mind  over  the 
events  and  problems  of  the  night  before.  Curiously 
enough,  he  found  that  he  considered  them  more  and  more 
in  their  relation  to  Beth.  Perhaps  it  was  his  fear  for 
her  happiness  that  laid  stress  on  the  probability  that  Jim 
Coast  was  Ben  Cameron,  Beth's  father.  How  otherwise 
could  Mrs.  Bergen's  terror  be  accounted  for?  And  yet 
why  had  Coast  been  so  perturbed  at  the  mere  mention 
of  Ben  Cameron's  name?  That  was  really  strange.  For 
a  moment  the  man  had  stared  at  Peter  as  though  he  were 
seeing  a  ghost.  If  he  were  Ben  Cameron,  why  shouldn't 
186 


CONFESSION 


he  have  acknowledged  the  fact?  Here  was  the  weak 
point  in  the  armor  of  mystery.  Peter  had  to  admit  that 
even  while  Coast  was  telling  "his  story  and  the  conviction 
was  growing  in  Peter's  mind  that  this  was  Beth's  father, 
the  very  thought  of  Beth  herself  seemed  to  make  the  re- 
lationship grotesque.  This  Jim  Coast,  this  picturesque 
blackguard  who  had  told  tales  on  the  Bermudian  that  had 
brought  a  flush  of  shame  even  to  Peter's  cheeks — this  de- 
generate, this  scheming  blackmailer — thief,  perhaps  mur- 
derer, too,  the  father  of  Beth!  Incredible!  The  merest 
contact  with  such  a  man  must  defile,  defame  her.  And 
yet  if  this  were  the  fact,  Coast  would  have  a  father's 
right  to  claim  her,  to  drag 'her  down,  a  prey  to  his  vife 
tongue  and  drunken  humors  as  she  had  once  been  when 
a  child.  Her  Aunt  Tillie  feared  this.  And  Aunt  Tillie 
did  not  know  as  Peter  now  did  of  the  existence  of  the 
vile  secret  that  sealed  Coast's  lips  and  held  McGuire*s 
soul  in  bondage. 

Instead  of  going  directly  up  the  lawn  to  the  house 
Peter  went  along  the  edge  of  the  woods  to  the  garagfe 
and  then  up  the  path,  as  Coast  must  have  done  a  few 
nights  before.  The  housekeeper  was  in  the  pantry  and 
there  Peter  sought  her  out.  He  noted  the  startled  look 
in  her  eyes  at  the  moment  he  entered  the  room  and  then 
the  line  of  resolution  into  which  her  mouth  was  imme- 
diately drawn.  So  Peter  chose  a  roundabout  way  of  com- 
ing to  his  subject. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  Beth,  Mrs.  Bergen,** 
he  began  cheerfully.  She  offered  him  a  chair  but  Peter 
leaned  against  the  window-sill  looking  out  into  the  gray 
morning.  He  told  her  what  he  had  discovered  about  her 
niece's  voice,  that  he  himself  had  been  educated  in  music 
and  that  he  thought  every  opportunity  should  be  giveTI 
Beth  to  have  her  voice  trained. 

He  saw  that  Mrs.  Bergen  was  disarmed  for  the  moment 
187 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


as  to  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit  and  he  went  on  to  tell 
her  just  what  had  happened  at  the  Cabin  with  Shad  Wells 
the  day  before,  and  asking  her,  as  Beth's  only  guardian, 
for  permission  to  carry  out  his  plan  to  teach  her  all  that 
he  knew,  after  which  he  hoped  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  go  to  New  York  for  more  advanced  training. 

Mrs.  Bergen  listened  in  wonder,  gasping  at  the  tale  of 
Shad  Well's  undoing,  which  Peter  asked  her  to  keep  in 
confidence.  From  Mrs.  Bergen's  comments  he  saw  that 
she  took  little '  stock  in  Shad,  who  had  been  bothering 
Beth  for  two  years  or  more,  and  that  her  own  love  for 
the  girl  amounted  to  a  blind  adoration  which  could  see 
no  fault  in  anything  that  she  might  do.  It  was  clear 
that  she  was  delighted  with  the  opportunities  Peter  of- 
fered, for  she  had  always  known  that  Beth  sang  "prettier 
than  anybody  in  the  world."  As  to  going  to  the  Cabin 
for  the  lessons,  that  was  nobody's  business  but  Beth's. 
She  was  twenty-two — and  able  to  look  out  for  herself. 

"I'm  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  concluded  tun- 
idly,  "an*  I've  seen  a  lot  of  trouble,  one  kind  or  another, 
but  I  ain't  often  mistaken  in  my  judgments.  I  know 
Beth.  She  ain't  nobody's  fool.  And  if  she  likes  you, 
you  ought  to  be  glad  of  it.  If  she's  willin'  to  come  to 
your  cabin,  I'm  Trillin*  that  she  should  go  there — no  mat- 
ter who  don't  like  it  or  why.  She  can  look  after  herself 
— aye,  better  than  I  can  look  after  her."  She  sighed.  And 
then  with  some  access  of  spirit,  "You're  different  from 
most  of  the  folks  around  here,  but  I  don't  see  nothin' 
wrong  with  you.  If  you  say  you  want  to  help  Beth,  I'm 
willin'  to  believe  you.  But  if  I  thought  you  meant  her 
any  harm " 

She  broke  off  and  stared  at  him  with  her  mild  eyes  un- 
der brows  meant  to  be  severe. 

"I  hope  you  don't  want  to  think  that,  Mrs.  Bergen," 
said  Peter  gently. 

188 


CONFESSION 


"No.  I  dont  want  to.  Beth  don't  take  up  with  every 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry.  And  if  she  likes  you,  I  reckon 
she  knows  what's  she's  about." 

"I  want  to  help  her  to  make  something  of  herself," 
said  Peter  calmly.  "And  I  know  I  can.  Beth  is  a  very 
unusual  girl.'* 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?  She  always  was. 
She  ain't  the  same  as  the  rest  of  us  down  here.  She  al- 
ways wanted  to  learn.  Even  now  when  she's  through 
school,  she's  always  readin' — always." 

"That's  it.  She  ought  to  complete  her  education.  That's 
what  I  mean.  I  want  to  help  her  to  be  a  great  singer. 
I  can  do  it  if  you'll  let  me." 

"Where's  the  money  comin'  from?"  sighed  Mrs.  Bergen. 

"No  need  to  bother  about  that,  yet.  I  can  give  her 

a  beginning,  if  you  approve.  After  that "  Peter 

paused  a  moment  and  then,  "We'll  see,"  he  finished. 

He  was  somewhat  amazed  at  the  length  to  which  his 
subconscious  thought  was  carrying  him,  for  his  spoken 
words  could  infer  nothing  less  than  his  undertaking  at 
his  own  expense  the  completion  of  the  girl's  education. 
The  housekeeper's  exclamation  quickly  brought  him  to  a 
recognition  of  his  meaning. 

"You  mean— that  you !"  she  halted  and  looked  at 

him  over  her  glasses  in  wonder. 

"Yes,"  he  said  blandly,  aware  of  an  irrevocable  step. 
"I  do,  Mrs.  Bergen." 

"My  land!"  she  exclaimed.  And  then  again  as  though 
in  echo,  "My  land!" 

"That's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I've  come  here  to 
you  to-day,"  he  went  on  quickly.  "I  want  to  help  Beth 
and  I  want  to  help  you.  I  know  that  everything  isn't 
going  right  for  you  at  Black  Rock  House.  I've  been 
drawn  more  deeply  into — into  McGuire's  affairs  than  I 
expected  to  be  and  Fve  learned  a  great  many  things  that 
189 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


aren't  any  business  of  mine.  And  one  of  the  things  I've 
learned  is  that  your  peace  of  mind  and  Beth' s  happiness 
are  threatened  by  the  things  that  are  happening  around 
you." 

The  housekeeper  had  risen  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  dresser,  immediately  on  her  guard. 

"Mrs.  Bergen,"  he  went  on  firmly,  "there's  no  use  of 
trying  to  evade  this  issue — because  it's  here!  I  know 
more  than  you  think  I  do.  I'm  trying  to  get  at  the  root 
of  this  mystery  because  of  Beth.  You  told  me  the  other 
night  that  Beth's  happiness  was  involved  when  that 
stranger  came  to  the  kitchen  porch " 

"No,  no,"  gasped  the  woman.  "Don't  ask  me.  I'll 
tell  you  nothin'." 

"You  saw  this  man — outside  the  kitchen  door  in  the 
dark,"  he  insisted.  "You  talked  with  him " 

"No — no.     Don't  ask  me,  Mr.  Nichols." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  he  said?  I  saw  him  last  night 
— talked  with  him  for  an  hour " 

"You — talked — with  him!"  she  gasped  in  alarm.  And 
then,  haltingly,  "What  did  he  say  to  you?  What  did  he 
do?  Is  he  coming  back?" 

She  was  becoming  more  disturbed  and  nervous,  so 
Peter  brought  a  chair  and  made  her  sit  in  it. 

"No.  He's  not  coming  back — not  for  a  month  or 
more,"  he  replied  reassuringly.  "But  if  I'm  to  help  you, 
I've  got  to  know  something  more  about  him,  and  for 
Beth's  sake  you've  got  to  help  me."  And  then  quietly, 
"Mrs.  Bergen,  was  this  man  who  came  to  the  kitchen 
door,  Ben  Cameron,  Beth's  father?" 

"My  God!"  said  the  housekeeper  faintly,  putting  her, 
face  in  her  hands. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  just  what  happened?"  Peter  asked. 

"I — I'm  scared,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  groaned.  "The  whole 
thing  has  been  too  much  for  me — knowin'  how  scared  Mr. 
190 


CONFESSION 


McGuire  is  too.  I  can't  understand,  I  can't  even — think 
— no  more." 

"Let  me  do  your  thinking  for  you.  Tell  me  what  hap- 
pened the  other  night,  Mrs.  Bergen." 

The  woman  raised  a  pallid  face,  her  colorless  eyes 
blinking  up  at  him  beseechingly. 

"Tell  me,"  he  whispered.  "It  can  do  no  possible 
harm." 

She  glanced  pitifully  at  him  once  more  and  then  halt- 
ingly told  her  story. 

"I — I  was  sittin'  in  the  kitchen  there,  the  night  of  the 
supper  party — by  the  door — restin'  and  tryin'  to  get 
cool — when — when  a  knock  come  on  the  door-jamb  out- 
side. It  sounded  queer — the  door  bein'  open — an'  my 
nerves  bein'  shook  sorter  with  the  goin's  on  here.  But  I 
went  to  the  door  an'  leaned  out.  There  was  a  man 
standin'  in  the  shadow " 

Mrs.  Bergen  paused  in  a  renewed  difficulty  of  breathing. 

"And  then ?"  Peter  urged. 

"He — he  leaned  forward  toward  me  an'  spoke  rough- 
like.  'You're  the  cook,  ain't  you?'  he  says.  I  was  that 
scared  I — I  couldn't  say  nothin'.  An'  he  went  on.  *You 
tell  McGuire  to  meet  me  at  the  end  of  the  lawn  to-morrow 
night.' " 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"Nothin'.     I  couldn't." 

"What  else  did  he  tell  you?" 

Mrs.  Bergen  bent  her  head  but  went  on  with  an  ef- 
fort. 

"He  says,  'Tell  McGuire  Ben — Ben  Cameron's  come 
back.' " 

"I  see.     And  you  were  more  frightened  than  ever?" 

"Yes.  More  frightened— terrible.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  I  mumbled  somethin'.  Then  you  an'  Beth  come 


191 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"And  was  it  Ben  Cameron  that  you  saw?" 

The  poor  creature  raised  her  gaze  to  Peter's  again. 

"B-Ben  Cameron?  Who  else  could  it  'a'  been?  An'  I 
thought  he  was  dead,  Mr.  Nichols — years  ago." 

"You  didn't   recognize  him,  then?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  It  was  all  so  sudden — like  seein'  a 
corpse — speakin*  that  name." 

"He  wore  a  short  beard?" 

"Yes.    But  Ben  Cameron  was  smooth  shaved.'* 

"Did  Ben  Cameron  have  any  distinguishing  mark — 
anything  you  could  remember  him  by?" 

"Yes.    Ben  Cameron's  little  finger  of  his  left  hand  was 

missin' .     But  of  course,  Mr.  Nichols,  I  couldn't  see 

nothin'  in  the  dark." 

"No,  of  course,"  said  Peter  with  a  gasp  of  relief,  "But 
his  voice ?" 

"It  was  gruff — hoarse — whisperin'-like." 

"Was  the  Ben  Cameron  you  knew,  your  brother-in- 
law— was  he  tall?" 

She  hesitated,  her  brows  puckering. 

"That's  what  bothered  me  some.  Beth's  father  wasn't 
over  tall " 

"I  see,"  Peter  broke  in  eagerly,  "and  this  man  was 
tall — about  my  size — with  a  hook  nose — black  eyes 
and " 

"Oh,  I — I  couldn't  see  his  face,"  she  muttered  help- 
lessly. **The  night  was  too  dark." 

"But  you  wouldn't  swear  it  was  Ben  Cameron?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  new  bewilderment.  "But  who 
else  could  it  'a'  been — sayin'  that  name — givin'  that 
message  ?" 

Peter  rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully. 

"Queer,  isn't  it?  I  don't  wonder  that  you  were 
alarmed — especially  for  Beth,  knowing  the  kind  of  man 
he  was." 

192 


CONFESSION 


"It's  terrible,  Mr.  Nichols.  A  man  like  Ben  Cameron 
never  gets  made  over.  He's  bad  clear  through.  If  you 

only  knew "    Mrs.  Bergen's  pale  eyes  seemed  to  be 

looking  back  into  the  past.  "He  means  no  good  to  Beth 
— that's  what  frightens  me.  He  could  take  her  away 
from  me.  She's  his  daughter " 

"Well— don't  worry,"  said  Peter  at  last.  "We'll  find 
a  way  to  protect  you."  And  then,  "Of  course  you  didn't 
take  that  message  to  McGuire?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  no— Mr.  Nichols.  I  couldn't.  I'd  'a'  died  first. 
But  what  does  it  all  mean?  Him  bein'  scared  of  Ben 
Cameron,  too.  I  can't  make  it  out — though  I've  thought 
and  thought  until  I  couldn't  think  no  more." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  tears  now,  so  Peter  soothed 
her  gently. 

"Leave  this  to  me,  Mrs.  Bergen."  And  then,  "You 
haven't  said  anything  of  this  to  any  one?" 

"Not  a  soul — I — I  was  hopin*  it  might  'a'  been  just  a 
dream." 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment,  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  thinking  deeply. 

"No.  It  wasn't  a  dream,"  he  said  quietly  at  last. 
"You  saw  a  man  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  he  gave  you 
the  message  about  Ben  Cameron,  but  the  man  you  saw 
wasn't  Ben  Cameron,  Mrs.  Bergen,  because,  unless  I'm 
very  much  mistaken,  Ben  Cameron  is  dead " 

"How  do  you ?" 

"He  didn't  die  when  you  thought  he  did,  Mrs.  Bergen 
— but  later.  I  can't  tell  you  how.  It's  only  a  guess. 
But  I'm  beginning  to  see  a  light  in  this  affair — and  I'm 
going  to  follow  it  until  I  find  the  truth.  Good-by.  Don't 
worry." 

And  Peter,  with  a  last  pat  on  the  woman's  shoulder  ana 
an  encouraging  smile,  went  out  of  the  door  and  into  the 
house. 

193 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Eagerly  Peter's  imagination  was  trying  to  fill  the  gap 
in  Jim  Coast's  story,  and  his  mind,  now  intent  upon  the 
solution  of  the  mystery,  groped  before  him  up  the  stair. 
And  what  it  saw  was  the  burning  Gila  Desert  .  .  . 
the  mine  among  the  rocks — "lousy"  with  outcroppings 
of  ore  ,  .  .  "Mike"  McGuire  and  "Hawk"  Kennedy, 
devious  in  their  ways,  partners  in  a  vile  conspiracy  .  .  . 

But  Peter's  demeanor  was  careless  when  Stryker  ad- 
mitted him  to  McGuire's  room  and  his  greeting  in  reply 
to  McGuire's  was  casual  enough  to  put  his  employer  off 
his  guard.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  McGuire  sent 
the  valet  out  and  went  himself  and  closed  and  locked  the 
door.  Peter  refused  his  cigar,  lighting  one  of  his  own 
cigarettes,  and  sank  into  the  chair  his  host  indicated. 
After  the  first  words  Peter  knew  that  his  surmise  had 
been  correct  and  that  his  employer  meant  to  deny  all 
share  in  the  shooting  of  the  night  before. 

"Well,"  began  the  old  man,  with  a  glance  at  the 
door,  "what  did  he  say?" 

Peter  shook  his  head  judicially.  He  had  already  de- 
cided on  the  direction  which  this  conversation  must  take. 

"No.     It  won't  do,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said  calmly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Merely  that  before  we  talk  of  what  Hawk  Kennedy 
said  to  me,  we'll  discuss  your  reasons  for  unnecessarily 
putting  my  life  in  danger " 

"This  shooting  you've  spoken  of " 

"This  attempted  murder!" 

"You're  dreaming." 

Peter  laughed  at  him.  "You'll  be  telling  me  in  a  mo- 
ment that  you  didn't  hear  the  shots."  And  then,  lean- 
ing forward  so  that  he  stared  deep  into  his  employer's 
eyes,  "See  here,  Mr.  McGuire,  I'm  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
I  know  too  much  of  your  affairs — more  than  you  think 

194 


CONFESSION 


"He  talked ?"  McGuire's  poise  was  slipping  from 

him. 

"One  moment,  if  you  please.  I  want  this  thing  per- 
fectly understood.  Your  arrangements  were  cleverly 
made — changing  the  guards — your  instructions  to  me — 
the  flashlight  and  all  the  rest.  You  didn't  want  to  kill 
me  if  you  could  help  it.  I'm  obliged  for  this  considera- 
tion. You  forgot  that  your  hand  isn't  as  steady  now  as 
it  was  when  you  were  a  dead  shot  out  in  Arizona — Ah! 
I  see  that  you  already  understand  what  I  mean." 

McGuire  had  started  forward  in  his  chair,  his  face 
livid. 

"You  know ?" 

"Yes.  More  than  I  wanted  to  know — more  than  I 
would  ever  have  known  if  you'd  played  fair  with  me.  You 
cared  nothing  for  my  life.  You  shot,  twice,  missed  kill- 
ing your  man  and  then  when  the  light  went  out,  sneaked 
away  like  the  coward  that  you  are " 

"D n  you,"  croaked  McGuire  feebly,  falling  back 

in  his  chair. 

"Leaving  me  to  the  mercies  of  your  ancient  enemy  in  the 
dark — who  thought  me  your  accomplice.  You  can  hardly 
blame  him  under  the  circumstances.  But  I  got  the  best 
of  him — luckily  for  me,  and  disarmed  him.  If  you  had 
remained  a  few  moments  longer  you  might  have  taken  part 
in  our  very  interesting  conversation.  Do  you  still  deny 
all  this?" 

McGuire,  stifled  with  his  fear  and  fury,  was  incapable 
of  a  reply. 

"Very  good.  So  long  as  we  understand  each  other 
thus  far,  perhaps  you  will  permit  me  to  go  on.  As  you 
know,  I  came  to  you  in  good  faith.  I  wanted  to  help  you 
in  any  way  that  a  gentleman  could  do.  Last  night  you 
tricked  me,  and  put  my  life  in  danger.  If  you  had  killed 
Kennedy  everything  would  have  been  all  right  for  you. 
195 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


And  I  would  have  been  accused  of  the  killing.  If  /  had 
been  killed  no  harm  would  have  been  done  at  all.  That 
was  your  idea.  It  was  a  clever  little  scheme.  Pity  it 
didn't  work  out.** 

McGuire's  faltering  courage  was  coming  back. 

"Go  on!"  he  muttered  desperately. 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter,  "I  will.  One  shot  of  yours 
scraped  Kennedy's  shoulder.  He  was  bleeding  badly,  so 
I  took  him  to  the  Cabin  and  fixed  him  up.  He  was  rather 
grateful.  He  ought  to  have  been.  I  gave  him  a  drink 
too — several  drinks.  You  said  he  wouldn't  talk,  but  he 
did." 

"You  made  him  talk,  d n  you,"  McGuire  broke  in 

hoarsely. 

"No.  He  volunteered  to  talk.  I  may  say,  he  insisted 
upon  it.  You  see,  I  happened  to  have  the  gentleman's 
acquaintance " 

"We  met  on  the  steamer  coming  over  when  we  were  es- 
caping from  Russia.  His  name  was  Jim  Coast  then.  He 
was  a  waiter  in  the  dining  saloon.  So  was  I.  Funny, 
isn't  it?" 

To  McGuire  it  seemed  far  from  that,  for  at  this  revela- 
tion his  jaw  dropped  and  he  stared  at  Peter  as  though 
the  entire  affair  were  beyond  his  comprehension. 

"You  knew  him!    A  waiter,  you!" 

"Yes.  Misfortune  makes  strange  bedfellows.  It  was 
either  that  or  starvation.  I  preferred  to  wait." 

"For — for  the  love  of  God — go  on/'  growled  McGuire. 
His  hands  were  clutching  the  chair  arm  and  there  was 
madness  in  his  shifting  eyes,  so  Peter  watched  him  keenly. 

"I  will.  He  told  me  how  you  and  he  had  worked  to-» 
gether  out  in  Colorado,  up  in  the  San  Luis  valley,  of  the 
gold  prospect  near  Wagon  Wheel  Gap,  of  its  failure — 
196 


CONFESSION 


how  you  met  again  in  Pueblo  and  then  went  down  into 
the  copper  country — Bisbee,  Arizona." 

Peter  had  no  pity  now.  He  saw  McGuire  straighten 
again  in  his  chair,  his  gaze  shifting  past  Peter  from  left 
to  right  like  a  trapped  animal.  His  fingers  groped  along 
the  chair  arms,  along  the  table  edge,  trembling,  eager 
but  uncertain.  But  the  sound  of  Peter's  narrative  seemed 
to  fascinate — to  hypnotize  him. 

"Go  on 1"  he  whispered  hoarsely.     "Go  on!'* 

"You  got  an  outfit  and  went  out  into  the  Gila  Desert,'* 
continued  Peter,  painting  his  picture  leisurely,  deliber- 
ately. "It  was  horrible — the  heat,  the  sand,  the  rocks — 
but  you  weren't  going  to  fail  this  time.  There  was  going 
to  be  something  at  the  end  of  this  terrible  pilgrimage  to 
repay  you  for  all  that  you  suffered,  you  and  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy. There  was  no  water,  but  what  you  carried  on 
your  pack-mules — no  water  within  a  hundred  miles,  noth- 
ing but  sand  and  rocks  and  the  heat.  No  chance  at  all 
for  a  man,  alone  without  a  horse,  in  that  desert.  You 
saw  the  bones  of  men  and  animals  bleaching  along  the 
trail.  That  was  the  death  that  awaited  any  man " 

"You  lie!" 

Peter  sprang  for  the  tortured  man  as  McGuire's  fin- 
gers closed  on  something  in  the  open  drawer  of  the  table, 
but  Peter  twisted  the  weapon  quickly  out  of  his  hand 
and  threw  it  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 

"You  fool,"  he  whispered  quickly  as  he  pinioned  Mc- 
Guire in  his  chair,  "do  you  want  to  add  another  murder 
to  what's  on  your  conscience?" 

But  McGuire  had  already  ceased  to  resist  him.  Peter 
hadn't  been  too  gentle  with  him.  The  man  had  col- 
lapsed. A  glance  at  his  face  showed  his  condition.  So 
Peter  poured  out  a  glass  of  whisky  and  water  which  he 
poured  between  his  employer's  gaping  lips.  Then  he 
waited,  watching  the  old  man.  He  seemed  really  old  now 
197 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


to  Peter,  a  hundred  at  least,  for  his  sagging  facial  mus- 
cles seemed  to  reveal  the  lines  of  every  event  in  his  life  — 
an  old  man,  though  scarcely  sixty,  yet  broken  and  help- 
less. He  came  around  slowly,  his  heavy  gaze  slowly  seek- 
ing Peter's. 

"What  —  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  managed  at 
last. 

"Nothing.  I'm  no  blackmailer."  And  then,  playing 
his  high  card,  "I've  heard  what  Hawk  said  about  Ben 
Cameron,"  said  Peter.  "Now  tell  me  the  truth." 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  McGuire  started  and  then 
his  eyes  closed  for  a  moment. 

"You  know  —  everything,"  he  muttered. 

"Yes,  Us  side,"  Peter  lied.    "What's  yours?" 

McGuire  managed  to  haul  himself  upright  in  his  chair, 
staring  up  at  Peter  with  bloodshot  eyes. 

"He's  lied  to  you,  if  he  said  I  done  it  -  ,"  he  gasped, 
relapsing  into  the  vernacular  of  an  earlier  day.  "It 
was  Hawk.  He  stabbed  him  in  the  back.  I  never  touched 
him.  I  never  had  a  thing  to  do  with  the  killin'.  I  swear 


Peter's  lips  set  in  a  thin  line. 

"So  Hawk  Kennedy  killed  Ben  Cameron!"  he  said. 

"He  did.    I  swear  to  God  -  " 

"And  then  you  cleared  out  with  all  the  water,  leaving 
Hawk  to  die.  That  was  murder  —  cold-blooded  mur- 
der -  » 

"My  God,  don't,  Nichols!"  the  old  man  moaned.  "If 
you  only  knew  -  " 

"Well,  then—  tell  me  the  truth." 

Their  glances  met.  Peter's  was  compelling.  He  had, 
when  he  chose,  an  air  of  command.  And  there  was  some- 
thing else  in  Peter's  look,  inflexible  as  it  was,  that  gave 
McGuire  courage,  an  unalterable  honesty  which  had  been 
so  far  tried  and  not  found  wanting. 
198 


CONFESSION 


"You  know — already,"  he  stammered. 

"Tell  me  your  story,"  said  Peter  bluntly. 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  hesitation,  and  then, 

"Get  me  a  drink,  Nichols.  I'll  trust  you.  I've  never 
told  it  to  a  living  man.  I'll  tell— I'll  tell  it  all.  It  may 
not  be  as  bad  as  you  think." 

He  drank  the  liquor  at  a  gulp  and  set  the  glass  down 
on  the  table  beside  him. 

"This — this  thing  has  been  hanging  over  me  for  fif- 
teen years,  Nichols — fifteen  years.  It's  weighted  me  down, 
made  an  old  man  of  me  before  my  time.  Maybe  it  will 
help  me  to  tell  somebody.  It's  made  me  hard — silent, 
busy  with  my  own  affairs,  bitter  against  every  man  who 
could  hold  his  head  up.  I  knew  it  was  going  to  come 
some  day.  I  knew  it.  You  can't  pull  anything  like  that 
and  get  away  with  it  forever.  I'd  made  the  money  for 
my  kids — I  never  had  any  fun  spending  it  in  my  life. 
I'm  a  lonely  man,  Nichols.  I  always  was.  No  happiness 
except  when  I  came  back  to  my  daughters — to  Peggy 
and  my  poor  Marj  orie  .  .  ." 

McGuire  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  Peter,  not  taking 
his  gaze  from  his  face,  patiently  waited.  McGuire  glanced 
at  him  just  once  and  then  went  on,  slipping  back  from 
time  to  time  into  the  speech  of  a  bygone  day. 

"I  never  knew  what  his  first  name  was.  He  was  always 
just  'Hawk'  to  us  boys  on  the  range.  Hawk  Kennedy  was 
a  bad  lot.  I  knew  it  up  there  in  the  San  Luis  valley  but  I 
wasn't  no  angel  from  Heaven  myself.  And  he  had  a 
way  with  him.  We  got  on  all  right  together.  But  when 
the  gold  mine  up  at  the  Gap  petered  out  he  quit  me — got 
beaten  up  in  a  fight  about  a  woman.  I  didn't  see  him  for 
some  years,  when  he  showed  up  in  Pueblo,  where  I  was 
workin'  in  a  smelter.  He  was  all  for  goin'  South  into  the 
copper  country.  He  had  some  money — busted  a  faro 
bank  he  said,  and  talked  big  about  the  fortune  he  was 
199 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


goin'  to  make.  Ah,  he  could  talk,  when  he  had  something 
on  his  mind  ...  I  had  some  money  saved  up  too 
and  so  I  quit  my  job  and  went  with  him  down  to  Bisbee, 
Arizona.  I  wish  to  God  I  never  had.  I'd  gotten  pretty 
well  straightened  out  up  in  Pueblo,  sendin'  money  East 

to  the  wife  and  all .  But  I  wanted  to  be  rich.  I  was 

forty-five  and  I  had  to  hurry.  But  I  could  do  it  yet. 
Maybe  this  was  my  chance.  That's  the  way  I  thought. 
That's  why  I  happened  to  listen  to  Hawk  Kennedy  and 
his  tales  of  the  copper  country. 

"Well,  we  got  an  outfit  in  Bisbee  and  set  out  along  the 
Mexican  border.  We  had  a  tip  that  let  us  out  into  the 
desert.  It  was  just  a  tip,  that's  all.  But  it  was  worth 
following  up.  It  was  about  this  man  Ben  Cameron.  He'd 
come  into  town  all  alone,  get  supplies  and  then  go  out 
again  next  day.  He  let  slip  something  over  the  drink 
one  night.  That  was  the  tip  we  were  followin'  up.  We 
struck  his  trail  all  right — askin*  questions  of  greasers 
and  Indians.  We  knew  he'd  found  somethin'  good  or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  so  quiet  about  it. 

"I  swear  to  God,  I  had  no  idea  of  harmin'  him.  I 
wanted  to  find  what  Ben  Cameron  had  found,  stake  out 
near  him  and  get  what  I  could.  Maybe  Hawk  Kennedy 
had  a  different  idea  even  then.  I  don't  know.  He  never 
said  what  he  was  thinkin'  about. 

"We  found  Ben  Cameron.  Perched  up  in  a  hill  of 
rocks,  he  was,  livin*  in  the  hole  he'd  dug  where  he'd  staked 
his  claim.  But  we  knew  he  hadn't  taken  out  any  papers. 
He  never  thought  anybody'd  find  him  out  there  in  that 
Hell-hole.  It  was  Hell  all  right.  Even  now  whenever  I 
think  of  what  Hell  must  be  I  think  of  what  that  gulch 
looked  like.  Just  rocks  and  alkali  dust  and  heat. 

"It  all  comes  back  to  me.  Every  little  thing  that  was 
said  and  done — every  word.  Ben  Cameron  saw  us  first — 
and  when  we  came  up,  he  was  sittin'  on  a  rock,  his  rifle 
200 


CONFESSION 


acrost  his  knees,  a  hairy  man,  thin,  burnt-out,  black  as  a 
greaser.  Hawk  Kennedy  passed  the  time  of  day,  but  Ben 
Cameron  only  cursed  at  him  and  waved  us  off.  'Get  the 
Hell  out  of  here/  he  says — ugly.  But  we  only  laughed 
at  him — for  didn't  we  both  see  the  kind  of  an  egg  Ben 
Cameron  was  settin'  on? 

"  'Don't  be  pokin'  jokes  at  the  Gila  Desert,  my  little 
man,'  say  Hawk,  polite  as  you  please.  'It's  Hell  that's 
here  and  here  it  will  remain.'  And  then  we  said  we  were 
short  of  water — which  we  were  not — and  had  he  any  to 
spare?  But  he  waved  us  on  with  his  rifle,  never  sayin'  a 
word.  So  we  moved  down  the  gulch  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
and  went  into  camp.  There  was  ore  here,  too,  but  nothin' 
like  what  Ben  Cameron  had. 

"Hawk  was  quiet  that  night — creepin'  about  among 
the  rocks,  but  he  didn't  say  what  was  on  his  mind.  In 
the  mornin'  he  started  off  to  talk  to  Ben  Cameron  an*  I 
went  with  him.  The  man  was  still  sittin'  on  his  rock,  with 
the  rifle  over  his  knees — been  there  all  night,  I  reckon. 
But  he  let  us  come  to  hailin'  distance." 

"  'Nice  claim  you  got  there,  pardner,'  says  Hawk. 

"'Is  it?'  says  he. 

"'Ain't  you  afraid  of  rubbin'  some  o'  that  verdigris 
off  onto  your  pants,'  says  Hawk. 

"  'They're  my  pants,'  says  Cameron.  'You  ain't  here 
for  any  good.  Get  out !'  And  he  brings  his  rifle  to  his 
hip.  We  saw  he  was  scared  all  right,  maybe  not  so  much 
at  what  we'd  do  to  him  as  at  sharin5  what  he'd  found. 

"  'The  Gila  Desert  ain't  all  yours,  is  it,  pardner?  Or 
maybe  you  got  a  mortgage  on  the  earth!'  says  Hawk, 
very  polite.  'You  ain't  got  no  objection  to  our  stakin' 
alongside  of  you,  have  you?  Come  along,  now.  Let's  be 
neighbors.  We  see  what  you've  got.  That's  all  right. 
We'll  take  your  leavin's.  We've  got  a  right  to  them.' 

"And  so  after  a  while  of  palaverin'  with  him,  he  lets  us 
201 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


come  up  and  look  over  his  claim.  It  didn't  take  any  eye 
at  all  to  see  what  he'd  got.  He  wasn't  much  of  a  man — 
Ben  Cameron-^weak-eyed,  rum-dum — poor  too.  You  could 
see  that  by  his  outfit — worse  off  than  we  were.  Hawk  told 
him  we  had  a  lot  of  friends  with  money — big  money  in  the 
East.  Maybe  we  could  work  it  to  run  a  railroad  out  to 
tap  the  whole  ridge.  That  kind  of  got  him  and  we  found 
he  had  no  friends  in  this  part  of  the  country — so  we  sat 
down  to  grub  together,  Ben  Cameron,  like  me,  unsus- 
pectin'  of  what  was  to  happen. 

"My  God,  Nichols,  I  can  see  it  all  like  it  had  happened 
yesterday.  Hawk  Kennedy  stood  up  as  though  to  look 
around  and  then  before  I  knew  what  he  was  about  had 
struck  Ben  Cameron  in  the  back  with  his  knife. 

"It  was  all  over  in  a  minute.  Ben  Cameron  reached  for 
his  gun  but  before  his  hand  got  to  it  he  toppled  over  side- 
ways and  lay  quiet. 

"I  started  up  to  my  feet  but  Hawk  had  me  covered 
and  I  knew  from  what  had  happened  that  he'd  shoot,  too. 

"  'Don't  make  a  fuss,'  he  says.  'Give  me  your  gun.'  I 
knew  he  had  me  to  rights  and  I  did  what  he  said.  'Now,' 
he  says,  'it's  yours  and  mine.'  " 

McGuire  made  a  motion  toward  the  glass.  Peter 
filled  it  for  him  and  he  drank. 

"And  then — what  happened?"  asked  Peter  quietly. 

"Hawk  Kennedy  had  me  dead  to  rights.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  do — to  make  believe  I  was  'with  him.' 
We  buried  Ben  Cameron,  then  went  down  and  brought 
our  outfit  up,  Hawk  watchin'  me  all  the  while.  He'd 
taken  my  gun  and  Ben  Cameron's  and  unloaded  them  and 
carried  all  the  ammunition  about  him.  But  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  in  for.  That  night  he  made  me  sit  down  while 
he  drew  up  a  paper,  torn  from  an  old  note  book  of  Ben 
Cameron's — a  partnership  agreement,  a  contract." 

McGuire  broke  off  suddenly  and  got  up,  moving  ner- 
202 


CONFESSION 


vously  to  the  safe,  from  one  of  the  drawers  of  which  he 
took  a  blue  linen  envelope  and  brought  forth  a  paper 
which  he  handed  to  Peter. 

"That's  the  hellish  thing,  Nichols,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"That's  why  I'm  afraid  of  Hawk  Kennedy.  A  lie  that 
he  forced  me  to  sign!  And  there's  another  paper  like 
this  in  his  possession.  Read  it,  Nichols." 

Peter  took  the  paper  in  his  fingers  and  looked  at  it 
curiously.  It  was  soiled  and  worn,  broken  at  the  edges, 
written  over  in  lead  pencil,  but  still  perfectly  legible. 

AGREEMENT  BETWEEN  HAWK  KENNEDY  AND  MIKE 

McGUIRE 

Us  two  found  Ben  Cameron  on  his  copper  claim  in  Madre  Gulch. 
We  killed  him.  Both  of  us  had  a  hand  in  it.  This  mine  is  Hawk 
Kennedy's  and  Mike  McGuire's  and  we  are  pardners  in  the  same  until 
death  us  do  part,  so  help  us  God. 

(Signed)     MIKE   McGuntE. 
HAWK  KENNEDY. 

"He  wanted  it  on  me "  McGuire  gasped.  "You 

see  ?  To  keep  me  quiet." 

"I  understand,"  said  Peter.  "This  is  'what  you've  got 
and  what  I've  got'  referred  to  in  the  placard." 

"Yes,"  said  McGuire.  "A  partnership  agreement  and 
a  confession — of  something  I  didn't  do." 

Peter's  eyes  were  searching  him  through  and  through. 

"You  swear  it?" 

McGuire  held  up  his  right  hand  and  met  Peter's  gaze 
without  flinching. 

"Before  God,  I  do." 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment,  thinking. 

"And  then,  you  left  Hawk  Kennedy  there  to  die,"  he 
said  slowly,  watching*  the  man. 

McGuire  sank  into  his  chair  with  a  sigh,  the  perspira- 
tion now  beaded  on  his  pale  forehead. 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  do,  I  tell  you,"  he  almost  whis- 
203 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


pered.  "He  had  me.  I  was  unarmed.  I'd  'a'  killed  him 
if  I'd  had  a  gun.  But  I  waited  a  few  days  after  we  buried 
Cameron — makin*  believe  I  was  satisfied  with  everything 
and  he  believed  me,  and  at  last  he  fell  asleep  tired  with 
keepin'  watch  on  me.  He  was  all  in.  I  bored  holes  in 
Ben  Cameron's  barrels,  lettin*  the  water  out  down  the 
rocks,  then  took  the  three  horses  and  the  mules  with  all 
the  water  that  was  left  and  got  away  before  he  woke  up. 

"It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  do,  Nichols — call  it  murder 
if  you  like.  But  it  served  him  right.  It  was  comin'  to 
him — and  I  got  away  with  it.  At  first  when  I  reached 
water  I  had  a  thought  of  goin'  back — to  save  him  before 
he  died — to  get  that  paper  I  couldn't  get  that  was  inside 
his  shirt." 

McGuire  leaned  forward,  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a 
moment,  trying  to  finish. 

"But  I  didn't  go  back,  Nichols.  I  didn't  go  back. 
That's  the  crime  I'm  payin*  for  now — not  the  other — 
not  the  murder  of  Ben  Cameron — I  didn't  do  that — the 
murder  of  Hawk  Kennedy — who  has  come  back." 

"What  happened  then? 

"I  turned  Ben  Cameron's  horse  and  burros  loose  where 
there  was  water  and  grass  and  went  on  to  Bisbee.  I  told 
them  my  buddy  had  died  of  a  fever.  I  thought  he  had 
by  now.  They  didn't  ask  any  questions.  I  was  safe.  The 
rest  was  easy.  I  filed  a  claim,  found  some  real  money  and 
told  what  I'd  found.  I  waited  a  month,  then  went  back  to 
Madre  Gulch  with  Bill  Munroe,  the  fellow  that  helped 
stake  us.  There  was  no  one  there.  We  searched  the 
rocks  and  plains  for  miles  around  for  signs  of  Hawk 
Kennedy's  body,  for  we  knew  he  couldn't  have  got  far  in 
that  heat  without  water.  But  we  found  nothin'.  Hawk 
Kennedy  had  disappeared." 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  "you  built  a  railroad  in  and  sold 

out  for  half  a  million  dollars ?" 

204 


CONFESSION 


McGuire  looked  up,  mystified. 

"Or  thereabouts,"  he  muttered.  "But  Hawk  Kennedy 
was  alive.  I  found  that  out  later  when  he  wrote  from 
London.  We  steered  him  off  the  track.  But  I  knew  he'd 
come  back  some  day  with  that  paper  I'd  signed.  That's 
what's  been  hangin'  over  me.  An'  now  it's  fallen.  I've 
told  you  the  truth.  I  had  to.  You  believe  me,  don't 
you?"  he  asked  appealingly. 

Peter  had  watched  him  keenly.  There  seemed  little 
doubt  that  what  he  told  was  the  truth.  There  was  no 
flaw  in  the  tale. 

"Yes,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "I  believe  you've  told 
me  the  truth.  But  you  can  hardly  blame  Hawk  Kennedy, 
murderer  though  he  is,  for  hating  you  and  wanting  what 
he  thinks  is  his." 

"No.     That's  true." 

"And  you  can't  blame  me  for  being  angry  at  the  trick 
you  played  me " 

"I  was  desperate.  I've  been  desperate  since  I  saw  him 
in  New  York.  Sometimes  I've  been  a  bit  queer,  I  reckon 
— thinkin'  about  Peggy  hearin'  this.  I  wanted  to  kill  him. 
It  was  a  good  chance  last  night.  Nobody  would  have 
blamed  me,  after  his  being  around  the  place.  It  was  an 
easy  shot — but  my  hand  wasn't  steady " 

"Pity  you  didn't  know  that  before  you  put  me  in 
danger." 

"I'm  sorry,  Nichols — sorry.  I'll  do  anything  you  like. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Instead  of  replying  at  once  Peter  took  out  a  cigarette 
and  lighted  it  carefully.  And  then, 

"You've  never  taken  the  trouble  to  make  any  inquiries 
as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  family  of  Ben  Cameron?"  he 
asked. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not?" 

205 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  was  afraid  to  ask." 

"I  see.  Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you  did?  It's 
his  money  that  made  your  fortune." 

"He  was  no  good.  Nobody  knew  him.  So  far  as  I 
ever  heard,  nobody  ever  asked  about  him.'* 

"Nevertheless  he  must  have  had  some  friends  some- 
where." 

"Maybe.  I  don't  know.  I'm  willing  to  help  them  if  I 
can,  providing  this  thing  can  be  kept  quiet."  And  then, 
pleadingly,  "You're  not  going  to  talk — to  use  it  against 
me,  Nichols?" 

Peter's  pity  for  McGuire  had  come  back.  The  man's 
terror,  his  desperation  of  the  past  weeks  had  burned  him 
out,  worn  him  to  a  shell. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  talk.  Hawk  Kennedy  didn't  dare 
tell  what  you've  told  me.  That's  why  I  believe  you." 

"And  you'll  stay  on  here  and  help  me  ?" 

«Yes We'll  see  how  we  can  balk  Hawk  Kennedy." 

"I'll  pay  him  fifty  thousand — a  hundred  thousand — 
for  that  agreement " 

"Not  a  dollar.  I've  got  a  better  use  for  your  money 
than  that." 

McGuire  thought  Peter  referred  to  the  necessary  im- 
provements of  the  estate.  But  Peter  had  another  idea 
in  mind. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  CHASE 

PETER  had  discovered  the  means  of  providing  for 
Beth's  musical  education.  Upon  inquiry  he  had 
found  that  McGuire  hardly  knew  Beth  except  as  a 
dependent  relative  of  Mrs.  Bergen,  who  came  in  sometimes 
to  help  her  aunt  with  the  cleaning — usually  before  Mc- 
Guire came  down  from  New  York.  Their  little  home  was 
not  on  his  visiting  list. 

He  delayed  telling  McGuire.  There  was  plenty  of  time 
and  there  was  no  doubt  of  his  employer's  doing  the  right 
thing  by  the  daughter  of  the  murdered  man.  Meanwhile, 
having  completed  his  plans  for  the  estate,  he  had  sug- 
gested that  McGuire  go  off  for  a  trip  somewhere  to  rest 
and  recover  his  poise.  Peter  had  promised  his  allegiance 
to  McGuire  when  Hawk  Kennedy  returned,  but  he  knew 
that  he  would  have  to  fight  fire  with  fire.  For  Hawk  had 
proved  himself  both  skillful  and  dangerous,  and  would 
struggle  desperately  to  get  what  he  thought  was  his 
own.  It  was  his  last  chance  to  make  a  big  stake — to  be 
independent  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  was  tasting 
luxury  now  and  wouldn't  give  up  without  a  fight  to  the 
death.  Something  must  be  thought  of — some  plan  to 
outwit  him,  to  circumvent  the  schemes  which  would  come 
out  of  his  visit  of  investigation  to  the  copper  country. 

Peter  had  said  nothing  to  Beth  or  to  Mrs.  Cameron  of 
what  he  had  discovered.  He  was  under  no  oath  of  se- 
crecy to  the  old  man,  but  he  realized  that  while  Hawk 
Kennedy  held  the  "confession"  McGuire  was  in  a  predica- 
207 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


ment  which  would  only  be  made  more  difficult  if  the  facts 
got  abroad.  And  so  Peter  had  gone  about  his  work  si- 
lently, aware  that  the  burden  of  McGuire's  troubles  had 
been  suddenly  shifted  to  his  own  shoulders.  He  spent 
most  of  his  days  at  the  lumber  camp  and  now  had  every 
detail  of  the  business  at  his  fingers'  ends.  Timbers  had 
been  hauled  to  the  appointed  sites  and  under  his  direction 
the  fire  towers  were  now  half  way  to  completion. 

He  had  found  Shad  Wells  down  at  the  mills,  morose, 
sullen  and  disposed  to  question  his  authority,  but  Mc- 
Guire  had  visited  the  bunk-house  one  night  before  he 
went  away,  and  it  was  soon  discovered  that  Peter  and  no 
other  was  the  boss  of  the  job.  Peter  for  reasons  of  his 
own  retained  Shad,  much  to  that  gentleman's  surprise,  as 
foreman  of  the  lumbering  gang,  but  Peter  wasn't  at  all 
satisfied  with  conditions  as  he  had  found  them  at  the 
lumber  camp  and  mills  and,  as  he  discovered  later,  the 
continuance  of  Shad  in  the  foreman's  job  was  a  mistake. 
If  Peter  had  hoped  by  this  act  of  conciliation  to  heal 
Shad's  wounds  and  bring  about  a  spirit  of  useful  coopera- 
tion with  the  man,  he  soon  found  that  the  very  reverse 
of  this  had  been  accomplished.  The  lumbermen  were  an 
unregenerate  lot,  some  of  them  "pineys,"  a  few  Italians, 
but  most  of  them  the  refuse  of  the  factories  and  ship- 
yards, spoiled  by  the  fatal  "cost  plus"  contracts  of  war 
time.  All  of  these  facts  Peter  learned  slowly,  aware  of 
an  undercurrent  moving  against  him  and  yet  entirely 
dependent  upon  this  labor — which  was  the  best,  indeed 
the  only  labor,  to  be  had.  He  made  some  improvements 
in  the  bunk-house  for  their  comfort,  increased  the  supply 
of  food  and  posted  notices  that  all  complaints  of  what- 
ever nature  would  be  promptly  investigated.  But  day 
after  day  new  stories  came  to  him  of  shirking,  of  dissat- 
isfaction and  continued  trouble-making. 

This  labor  trouble  was  no  new  thing  at  Black  Rock, 
208 


THE  CHASE 


and  had  existed  practically  since  the  beginning  of  the 
work  on  the  lumber  contract  six  months  before  Peter  had 
been  employed.  But  it  was  not  long  before  Peter  dis- 
covered through  Jesse  Brown,  whose  confidence  he  had 
gained,  that  there  were  agitators  in  the  camp,  undoubt- 
edly receiving  their  inspiration  and  pay  from  sources 
inimical  to  all  capital  in  the  abstract  and  to  all  order 
and  decency  at  Black  Rock  in  the  concrete,  who  were 
fomenting  the  unrest  and  dissatisfaction  among  the  men. 
In  order  to  investigate  the  difficulties  personally  Peter 
went  down  to  the  camp  and  lived  there  for  a  time,  bunking 
with  the  men  and  listening  to  their  stories,  winning  some 
of  them  to  his  side  and  tracing  as  far  as  he  could  the 
troubles  to  their  sources,  two  men  named  Flynn  and 
Jacobi.  He  discharged  these  two  men  and  sent  them  out 
of  the  camp  over  Wells's  protest.  But  even  then  he  had 
a  sense  of  failure.  The  trouble  was  deeper  than  was 
manifest  upon  the  surface.  No  mere  raise  in  wages  would 
clear  it  away.  It  was  born  of  the  world's  sickness,  with 
which  the  men  from  the  cities  had  been  inoculated. 

One  night  while  he  sat  in  the  bunk-house  smoking  a 
pipe  and  talking  with  Jesse  Brown,  Shad  Wells  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  framed  against  the  darkness. 
Shad's  gaze  and  Peter's  met — then  Peter's  glance  turned 
to  Shad's  companion.  As  this  man  saw  Peter  he  turned 
his  head  and  went  down  the  length  of  the  bunk-house. 
Peter  got  up  at  once,  followed  him  and  faced  him.  The 
man  now  wore  a  dark  beard,  but  there  was  no  mistake. 
It  was  the  fellow  of  the  black  mustache — the  stranger 
whom  Peter  had  seen  in  the  Pennsylvania  Station  in  New 
York,  the  same  man  he  had  caught  prowling  some  weeks 
ago  around  his  cabin  in  the  darkness. 

Peter  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  but  the  man  would 
not  meet  his  gaze. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Peter  at  last.  And  then,  as 
209 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


he  made  no  reply,  "What  were  you  doing  prowling  around 
my  cabin  up  by  the  creek?" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"No  understan',"  he  muttered. 

At  this  point,  Shad  Wells,  who  had  followed  with  Jesse 
Brown,  came  in  between  them. 

"That's  right,  Nichols,"  he  growled.  "No  understan' 
— He's  a  'guinea.' "  To  Wells  all  men  were  "guineas" 
who  didn't  speak  his  own  language. 

"Italian?     Are  you?     French?     Spanish?     Slovak?" 

Each  time  the  man  shook  his  head.  And  then,  with  an 
inspiration,  Peter  shot  at  him  a  quick  phrase  in  Rus- 
sian. But  the  man  gave  no  sign  of  comprehension. 

"Who  put  this  man  on?"  asked  Peter,  turning  to  Wells. 

"I  did,"  said  the  native  sullenly. 

"Why?"  said  Peter,  growing  warmer.  "Didn't  I  tell 
you  that  in  future  I  would  hire  all  the  men  myself  ?" 

"We're  short-handed,  since  you  fired  two  of  the  best 
axmen  we  got " 

"You  disobeyed  orders " 

"Orders— Hell!" 

"All  right.  We'll  see  who's  running  this  camp,  you  or 
me.  To-morrow  morning  Jesse  Brown  starts  as  foreman 
here.  Understand  ?" 

Shad's  eyes  shot  fire,  then  smoldered  and  went  out  as 
he  turned  with  a  sneering  laugh  and  walked  away. 

"As  for  you,"  said  Peter  to  the  stranger,  who  stood 
uncertainly,  "you  go  to  the  office  in  the  morning  and  get 
your  envelope."  Then  repeated  the  sentence  in  Russian. 
"If  you  don't  understand — find  somebody  who  does." 

That  the  stranger  had  understood  Peter's  demeanor 
if  not  his  language  was  evident,  for  in  the  morning  he 
had  vanished. 

After  that  clearing  of  the  air  things  went  somewhat 
better  at  the  camp.  Jesse  Brown,  though  not  aggressive, 
210 


THE  CHASE 


was  steady  and  honest  and  had  a  certain  weight  with  the 
Jerseymen.  As  to  the  others,  there  was  doubt  as  to 
whether  anything  would  have  satisfied  them.  For  the 
present,  at  least,  it  was  a  question  of  getting  on  as  well 
as  possible  with  the  means  at  hand.  There  was  a  limit 
to  Peter's  weekly  pay  roll  and  other  men  were  not  to  be 
had.  Besides,  Peter  had  promised  McGuire  to  keep  the 
sawmills  busy.  He  knew  that  when  he  had  come  to  Black 
Rock  the  work  on  the  lumber  contract  had  already  fallen 
behind  the  schedule,  and  that  only  by  the  greatest  per- 
severance could  he  make  up  the  time  already  lost. 

As  he  rode  back  to  his  cabin  on  the  afternoon  after  his 
encounter  with  Shad  Wells  and  the  stranger  with  the 
black  mustache,  he  found  himself  quite  satisfied  with  re- 
gard to  his  summary  dismissal  of  them  both.  On  Beth's 
account  he  had  hesitated  to  depose  Shad.  He  knew  that 
before  he  had  come  to  Black  Rock  they  had  been  friends 
as  well  as  distant  relatives,  and  Beth  in  her  frequent  meet- 
ings with  Peter  had  expressed  the  hope  that  Shad  would 
"come  around."  Peter  had  given  him  every  chance,  even 
while  he  had  known  that  the  Jerseyman  was  working 
against  both  McGuire's  and  Peter's  interests.  Flynn  and 
Jacobi,  the  men  Peter  had  sent  away,  were  radicals  and 
agitators.  Flynn  had  a  police  record  that  did  not  bear 
close  inspection,  and  Jacobi  was  an  anarchist  out  and 
out.  Before  Peter  had  come  to  Black  Rock  they  had 
abused  Shad's  credulity  and  after  the  fight  at  the  Cabin, 
he  had  been  their  willing  tool  in  interrupting  the  comple- 
tion of  the  contract.  For  of  course  Shad  had  hoped  that 
if  Peter  couldn't  get  the  lumber  out  when  promised,  Mc- 
Guire would  put  the  blame  on  the  new  superintendent  and 
let  him  go.  That  was  Shad's  idea.  If  he  had  ever  been 
decent  enough  to  warrant  Beth's  friendship,  his  jealousy 
had  warped  his  judgment.  Peter  was  no  longer  sorry  for 
Shad  Wells.  He  had  brought  all  his  troubles  on  himself. 
211 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


As  to  the  stranger  with  the  black  mustache,  that  was 
a  more  serious  matter.  Every  circumstance — the  recog- 
nition in  New  York,  the  skill  with  which  the  man  had 
traced  him  to  Black  Rock,  the  craft  with  which  he  had 
watched  Peter  and  his  success  in  finally  getting  into  the 
camp  and  gaining  Shad's  confidence,  made  a  certainty 
in  Peter's  mind  that  the  stranger  had  some  object  in  re- 
maining near  Peter  and  keeping  him  under  observation. 
And  what  other  object  than  a  political  one?  The  trail 
he  had  followed  had  begun  with  the  look  of  recognition 
in  the  Pennsylvania  Station  in  New  York.  And  where 
could  that  look  of  recognition  have  sprung  from  unless 
he  had  identified  Peter  Nichols  as  the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch  ?  It  seemed  incredible,  but  there  could  be 
no  other  explanation.  The  man  had  seen  him  somewhere 
— perhaps  in  Russia — perhaps  in  Paris  or  London,  or 
perhaps  had  only  identified  him  by  his  portraits  which 
had  been  published  frequently  in  the  Continental  maga- 
zines and  newspapers.  But  that  he  had  really  identified 
him  there  could  not  be  the  slightest  doubt  and  Peter's  hope 
that  he  would  have  been  able  to  lose  his  identity  in  the 
continent  of  America  and  become  merged  into  a  different 
civilization  where  he  could  work  out  the  personal  problem 
of  existence  in  his  own  time,  by  his  own  efforts  and  in 
his  own  way,  seemed  destined  to  failure. 

If  the  stranger  knew  that  Peter  was  in  New  Jersey 
there  was  no  doubt  that  there  were  others  who  knew  it 
also,  those  who  employed  him — those  in  whose  interests 
he  was  working.  Who?  The  same  madmen  who  had  done 
Nicholas  to  death  and  had  killed  one  by  one  the  misguided 
Empress,  Olga,  Tania,  the  poor  little  Czarevitch  and 
the  rest  .  .  .  Did  they  consider  him,  Peter  Nichols, 
lumber- jack  extraordinary,  as  a  possible  future  claimant 
to  the  throne  of  Russia  ?  Peter  smiled  grimly.  They  were 
"straining  at  a  gnat  while  swallowing  the  camel."  And 


THE  CHASE 


if  they  feared  him,  why  didn't  they  strike?  The  stranger 
had  already  had  ample  opportunity  to  murder  him  if  he 
had  been  so  disposed,  could  still  do  it  during  Peter's 
daily  rides  back  and  forth  from  the  Cabin  to  the  camp 
and  to  the  Upper  Reserve. 

All  of  these  thoughts  percolated  slowly,  as  a  result  of 
the  sudden  inspiration  at  the  bunk-house  which  had  lib- 
erated a  new  train  of  ideas,  beginning  with  the  identifica- 
tion of  the  Russian  characteristics  of  the  new  lumberman, 
which  were  more  clearly  defined  under  the  beard  and 
workman's  shirt  than  under  the  rather  modish  gray  slouch 
hat  and  American  clothing  in  which  Peter  had  seen  him 
earlier.  And  Peter  had  merely  let  the  man  go.  He  had 
no  proof  of  the  fellow's  purposes,  and  if  he  had  even  dis- 
covered exactly  what  those  purposes  were,  there  was  no 
recourse  for  Peter  but  to  ask  for  the  protection  of  Wash- 
ington, and  this  he  had  no  desire  to  do. 

If  the  man  suspected  from  the  quickly  spoken  Russian 
sentence  that  Peter  now  guessed  his  mission,  he  had  given 
no  sign  of  it.  But  that  meant  nothing.  The  fellow  was 
clever.  He  was  doubtless  awaiting  instructions.  And 
unless  Peter  took  his  case  to  the  Department  of  Justice 
he  could  neither  expect  any  protection  nor  hope  for  any 
security  other  than  his  own  alertness. 

At  the  Cabin  Beth  was  waiting  for  him.  These  hours 
of  music  and  Beth  were  now  as  much  a  part  of  Peter's 
day  as  his  breakfast  or  his  dinner.  And  he  had  only 
failed  her  when  the  pressure  of  his  responsibilities 
was  too  great  to  permit  of  his  return  to  the  Cabin.  The 
hour  most  convenient  for  him  was  that  at  the  close  of 
the  day,  and  though  weary  or  discouraged,  Peter  always 
came  to  the  end  of  this  agreeable  hour  rested  and  re- 
freshed, and  with  a  sense  of  something  definitely  achieved. 
For  whatever  the  days  brought  forth  of  trouble  and  disap- 
pointment, down  at  the  logging  camp  or  the  mills,  here 
213 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


was  Beth  waiting  for  him,  full  of  enthusiasm  and  self- 
confidence,  a  tangible  evidence  of  success. 

The  diligence  with  which  she  applied  his  instructions, 
the  ease  with  which  she  advanced  from  one  step  to  an- 
other, showed  her  endowed  with  an  intelligence  even  be- 
yond his  early  expectations.  She  was  singing  simple 
ballads  now,  English  and  French,  and  already  evinced  a 
sense  of  interpretation  which  showed  the  dormant  artist. 
He  tried  at  first,  of  course,  to  eliminate  all  striving  for 
effect,  content  to  gain  the  purity  of  tone  for  which  he  was 
striving,  but  she  soared  beyond  him  sometimes,  her  soul 
defying  limitations,  liberated  into  an  empyrean  of  song. 
If  anything,  she  advanced  too  rapidly,  and  Peter's  great- 
est task  was  to  restrain  her  optimism  and  self-confidence 
by  imposing  the  drudgery  of  fundamental  principles. 
And  when  he  found  that  she  was  practicing  too  long,  he 
set  her  limits  of  half-hour  periods  beyond  which  she  must 
not  go.  But  she  was  young  and  strong  and  only  once 
had  he  noted  the  slightest  symptom  of  wear  and  tear  on 
her  vocal  chords,  when  he  had  closed  the  piano  and  pro- 
hibited the  home  work  for  forty-eight  hours. 

As  to  their  personal  relations,  Peter  had  already  no- 
ticed a  difference  in  his  own  conduct  toward  Beth,  and  in 
hers  toward  him, — a  shade  of  restraint  in  Beth's  conver- 
sation when  not  on  the  topic  of  music,  which  contrasted 
rather  strangely  with  the  candor  of  their  first  meetings. 
Peter  couldn't  help  smiling  at  his  memories,  for  now  Beth 
seemed  to  be  upon  her  good  behavior,  repaying  him  for 
her  earlier  contempt  with  a  kind  of  awe  at  his  attain- 
ments. He  caught  her  sometimes  in  unguarded  moments 
looking  at  him  curiously,  as  though  in  wonder  at  a  mys- 
tery which  could  not  be  explained.  And  to  tell  the  truth, 
Peter  wondered  a  little,  too,  at  his  complete  absorption 
in  the  task  he  had  set  himself.  He  tried  to  believe  that 
it  was  only  the  music  that  impelled  him,  only  the  joy  of 
214 


THE  CHASE 


an  accomplished  musician  in  the  discovery  of  a  budding 
artist,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  something  more  than 
these.  For  reducing  the  theorem  to  different  terms,  he 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  if  the  girl  had  been  any  one 
but  Beth,  no  matter  how  promising  her  voice,  he  must 
have  been  bored  to  extinction.  No.  He  had  to  admit  that 
it  was  Beth  that  interested  him,  Beth  the  primitive,  Beth 
the  mettlesome,  Beth  the  demure.  For  if  now  demure  she 
was  never  dull.  The  peculiarity  of  their  situation — of 
their  own  choosing — lent  a  spice  to  the  relationship  which 
made  each  of  them  aware  that  the  other  was  young  and 
desirable — and  that  the  world  was  very  far  away. 

However  far  Beth's  thoughts  may  have  carried  her  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  personal  pulchritude  of  her 
music  master  (somewhat  enhanced  by  the  extirpation  of 
the  Hellion  triplet  in  her  own  behalf)  it  was  Peter  Nicho- 
laevitch  who  made  the  task  of  Peter  Nichols  difficult.  It 
was  the  Grand  Duke  Peter  who  wanted  to  take  this 
peasant  woman  in  his  arms  and  teach  her  what  other 
peasant  girls  had  been  taught  by  Grand  Dukes  since  the 
beginning  of  the  autocratic  system  of  which  he  had  been 
a  part — but  it  was  Peter  Nichols  who  restrained  him. 
Peter  Nicholaevitch  feared  nothing,  knew  no  restraint, 
lived  only  for  the  hour — for  the  moment.  Peter  Nichols 
was  a  coward — or  a  gentleman — he  was  not  quite  certain 
which. 

When  Peter  entered  the  Cabin  on  the  evening  after  the 
appointment  of  Jesse  Brown  as  foreman  at  the  lumber 
camp,  Beth  could  not  help  noticing  the  clouds  of  worry 
that  hung  over  Peter's  brows. 

"You're  tired,"  she  said.  "Is  anything  wrong  at  the 
camp  ?" 

But  he  only  shook  his  head  and  sat  down  at  the  piano. 
And  when  she  questioned  him  again  he  evaded  her  and 
went  on  with  the  lesson.  Music  always  rested  him,  and 
215 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


the  sound  of  her  voice  soothed.  It  was  the  "Elegie"  of 
Massenet  that  he  had  given  her,  foolishly  perhaps,  a  diffi- 
cult thing  at  so  early  a  stage,  because  of  its  purity  and 
simplicity,  and  he  had  made  her  learn  the  words  of  the 
French — like  a  parrot — written  them  out  phonetically, 
because  the  French  words  were  beautiful  and  the  English, 
as  written,  abominable.  And  now  she  sang  it  to  him 
softly,  as  he  had  taught  her,  again  and  again,  while  he 
corrected  her  phrasing,  suggesting  subtle  meanings  in 
his  accompaniment  which  she  was  not  slow  to  comprehend. 

"I  didn't  know  that  music  could  mean  so  much,"  she 
sighed  as  she  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  sense  of  failure, 
when  the  lesson  was  ended.  "I  always  thought  that  music 
just  meant  happiness.  But  it  means  sorrow  too." 

"Not  to  those  who  hear  you  sing,  Beth,"  said  Peter 
with  a  smile,  as  he  lighted  and  smoked  a  corncob  pipe, 
a  new  vice  he  had  discovered  at  the  camp.  Already  the 
clouds  were  gone  from  his  forehead. 

"No!  Do  you  really  think  that,  Mr.  Nichols?"  she 
asked  joyously. 

She  had  never  been  persuaded  to  call  him  by  his 
Christian  name,  though  Peter  would  have  liked  it.  The 
"Mr."  was  the  tribute  of  pupil  to  master,  born  also  of  a 
subtler  instinct  of  which  Peter  was  aware. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  generously,  "you'll  sing  that  very 
well  in  time " 

"When  I've  suffered?"  she  asked  quickly. 

He  glanced  up  from  the  music  in  his  hand,  surprised 
at  her  intuition. 

"I  don't  like  to  tell  you  so " 

"But  I  think  I  understand.     Nobody  can  sing  what 

she  doesn't  feel — what  she  hasn't  felt.     Oh,  I  know,"  she 

broke  off  suddenly.    "I  can  sing  songs  of  the  woods — the 

water — the  pretty  things  like  you've  been  givin'  me,    But 

216 


THE  CHASE 


the  deep  things — sorrow,  pain,  regret — like  this — I'm  not 
'up'  to  them." 

Peter  sat  beside  her,  puffing  contentedly. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  muttered.    "Your  voice  will  ripen." 

"And  will  I  ripen  too?" 

He  laughed.  "I  don't  want  you  ever  to  be  any  dif- 
ferent from  what  you  are." 

She  was  thoughtful  a  moment,  for  Peter  had  always 
taken  pains  to  be  sparing  in  personalities  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her  voice. 

"But  I  don't  want  always  to  be  what  I  am,"  she  pro- 
tested, "just  growin'  close  to  the  ground  like  a  pumpkin 
or  a  squash." 

He  laughed.     "You  might  do  worse." 

"But  not  much.  Oh,  I  know.  You're  teachin*  me  to 
think — and  to  feel — so  that  I  can  make  other  people  do 
the  same — the  way  you've  done  to  me.  But  it  don't  make 
me  any  too  happy  to  think  of  bein'  a — a  squash  again." 

"Perhaps  you  won't  have  to  be,"  said  Peter  quietly. 

"And  the  factory — I've  got  to  make  some  money  next 
winter.  I  can't  use  any  of  Aunt  Tillie's  savin's.  But 
when  I  know  what  I  might  be  doin',  it's  not  any  too  easy 
to  think  of  goin'  back  there!" 

"Perhaps  you  won't  have  to  go,"  said  Peter  again. 

Her  eyes  glanced  at  him  quickly,  looked  away,  then 
returned  to  his  face  curiously. 

"I  don't  just  understand  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean,"  said  Peter,  "that  we'll  try  to  find  the  means 
to  keep  you  out  of  the  glass  factory — to  keep  on  with 
the  music." 

"But  how ?  I  can't  be  dependent  on "  She 

paused  with  a  glance  at  him.  And  then  quickly,  with 
her  characteristic  frankness  that  always  probed  straight 
to  her  point,  "You  mean  that  you  will  pay  my  way?" 

"Merely  that  I'm  going  to  find  the  money — somehow." 
217 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


But  she  shook  her  head  violently.  "Oh,  no,  I  couldn't 
let  you  do  that,  Mr.  Nichols.  I  couldn't  think  of  it." 

"But  you've  got  to  go  on,  Beth.  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  that.  You'll  go  pretty  fast.  It  won't  be  long 
before  you'll  know  all  that  I  can  teach  you.  And  then 
I'm  going  to  put  you  under  the  best  teacher  of  this 
method  in  New  York.  In  a  year  or  so  you'll  be  earning 
your  own  way " 

"But  I  can't  let  you  do  this  for  me.  You're  doin'  too 
much  as  it  is — -too  much  that  I  can't  pay  back." 

"We  won't  talk  of  money.  You've  given  me  a  lot  of 
enjoyment.  That's  my  pay." 

"But  this  other — this  studyin'  in  New  York.  No,  I 
couldn't  let  you  do  that.  I  couldn't — I  can't  take  a  cent 
from  you  or  from  any  man — woman  either,  for  that  mat- 
ter. I'll  find  some  way — workin'  nights.  But  I'm  not 
goin*  back,"  she  added  almost  fiercely  between  her  teeth, 
"not  to  the  way  I  was  before.  I  won't.  I  can't." 

"Good.  That's  the  way  great  careers  are  made.  I 
don't  intend  that  you  shall.  I'm  going  to  make  a  great 
singer  of  you,  Beth." 

She  colored  with  joy. 

"Are  you,  Mr.  Nichols?  Are  you?  Oh,  I  want  to 
make  good — indeed  I  do — to  learn  French  and  Ital- 
ian  "  And  then,  with  a  sharp  sigh,  "O  Lord,  if 

wishes  were  horses !"  She  was  silent  again,  regard- 
ing him  wistfully.  "Don't  think  I'm  not  grateful.  I'm 
afraid  you  might.  I  am  grateful.  But — sometimes  I 
wonder  what  you're  doin'  it  all  for,  Mr.  Nichols.  And 
whether " 

As  she  paused  again  Peter  finished  for  her. 

"Whether  it  wouldn't  have  been  better  if  I  hadn't  let 

you  just  remain — er,"  he  grinned,  "a  peach,  let's  say? 

Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Beth,"  he  went  on,  laying  his  pipe 

aside,  "I  came  here,  without  a  friend,  to  a  strange  job 

218 


THE  CHASE 


in  a  strange  country.  I  found  you.  Or  rather  you  found 
me — lost  like  a  babe  in  the  woods.  You  made  fun  of  me. 
Nobody  had  ever  done  that  before  in  my  life,  but  I  rather 
liked  it.  I  liked  your  voice  too.  You  were  worth  helping, 
you  see.  And  then  along  came  Shad.  I  couldn't  have  him 
ordering  you  about,  you  know — not  the  way  he  did  it — 
if  he  hadn't  any  claim  on  you.  So  you  see,  I  had  a  sense 

of  responsibility  for  you  after  that About  you, 

too ,"  he  added,  as  though  thinking  aloud. 

His  words  trailed  off  into  silence  while  Beth  waited  for 
him  to  explain  about  his  sense  of  responsibility.  She 
wasn't  altogether  accustomed  to  have  anybody  responsible 
for  her.  But  as  he  didn't  go  on,  she  spoke. 

"You  mean  that  you — that  I — that  Shad  forced  me 
on  you?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  child — no." 

"Then  what  did  you  mean?"  she  insisted. 

Peter  thought  he  had  a  definite  idea  in  his  mind  about 
what  he  felt  as  to  their  relationship.  It  was  altruistic 
he  knew,  gentle  he  was  sure,  educational  he  was  positive. 
But  half  sleepily  he  spoke,  unaware  that  what  he  said 
might  sound  differently  to  one  of  Beth's  independent 
mind. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I  wanted  to  look  after  you — 
that  I  wanted  our  friendship  to  be  what  it  has  proved  to 
be — without  the  flaw  of  sentiment.  I  wouldn't  spoil  a 
single  hour  by  any  thought  of  yours  or  mine  that  led  us 
away  from  the  music." 

And  then,  while  her  brain  worked  rapidly  over  this 
calm  negation  of  his,  "But  you  can't  be  unaware,  Beth, 
that  you're  very  lovely." 

Now  "sentiment"  is  a  word  over  which  woman  has  a 

monopoly.     It   is   her  property.      She  understands   its 

many  uses  as  no  mere  man  can  ever  hope  to  do.    The  man 

who  tosses  it  carelessly  into  the  midst  of  a  delicate  sit- 

219 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


uation  is  courting  trouble.  Beth  perked  up  her  head  like 
a  startled  fawn.  What  did  he  mean?  All  that  was 
feminine  in  her  was  up  in  arms,  nor  did  she  lay  them  down 
in  surrender  at  his  last  phrase,  spoken  with  such  an  un- 
flattering air  of  commonplace. 

Suddenly  she  startled  Peter  with  a  rippling  laugh 
which  made  him  sit  up  blinking  at  her.  "Are  you  apolo- 
gizin'  for  not  makin'  love  to  me?"  she  questioned  imperti- 
nently. "Say — that's  funny."  And  she  went  off  into 
another  disconcerting  peal  of  laughter. 

But  it  wasn't  funny  for  Peter,  who  was  now  made 
aware  that  she  had  turned  his  mind  inside  out  upon  the 
table  between  them,  so  to  speak,  that  she  might  throw 
dust  in  the  wheels.  And  so  he  only  gasped  and  stared  at 
her — startlingly  convinced  that  in  matters  of  sentiment 
the  cleverest  man  is  no  match  for  even  the  dullest  woman 
and  Beth  could  hardly  be  considered  in  this  category. 
At  the  challenge  of  his  half  expressed  thought  the  de- 
mureness  and  sobriety  of  the  lesson  hour  had  fallen  from 
her  like  a  doffed  cloak. 

Peter  protested  blandly. 

"You  don't  understand  what " 

But  she  broke  in  swiftly.  "Maybe  you  were  afraid  I 
might  be  fallin'  in  love  with  you"  she  twitted  him,  and 
burst  into  laughter  again. 

"I — I  had  no  such  expectation,"  said  Peter,  stiffening, 
sure  that  his  dignity  was  a  poor  thing. 

"Or  maybe ,"  she  went  on  joyfully,  "maybe  you 

were  afraid  you  might  be  fallin'  in  love  with  me."  And 
then  as  she  rose  and  gathered  up  her  music,  tantalizingly, 
"What  did  you  mean,  Mr.  Nichols?" 

He  saw  that  he  was  losing  ground  with  every  word  she 
uttered,  but  his  sense  of  humor  conquered. 

"You  little  pixie!"  he  cried,  dashing  for  her,  with  a 
laugh.  "Where  have  you  hidden  this  streak  of  impu- 
220 


THE  CHASE 


dence  all  these  weeks?"  But  she  eluded  him  nimbly,  run- 
ning around  the  table  and  out  of  the  door  before  he  could 
catch  up  with  her. 

He  halted  at  the  doorsill  and  called  to  her.  She 
emerged  cautiously  from  behind  a  bush  and  made  a  face 
at  him. 

"Beth!  Come  back!"  he  entreated.  "I've  got  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

"What?"  she  asked,  temporizing. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you — seriously." 

"Good  Lord— seriously !  You're  not  goin'  to — to 
take  the  risk  of — of  havin'  me  'vamp*  you,  are  you?" 

"Yes.     I'll  risk  that,"  he  grinned. 

But  she  only  broke  off  a  leaf  and  nibbled  at  it  con- 
templatively. "Maybe  /  won't  risk  it.  *I  don't  want  to 
spoil  a  single  hour,'  "  she  repeated,  mocking  his  dignity, 
'by  any  thought  of  yours  or  mine  that  would  lead  us  away 
from  the  music.'  Maybe  I'm  in  danger."  And  then, 
"You  know  you're  not  so  bad  lookin'  yourself,  Mr. 
Nichols !" 

"Stop  teasing,  Beth." 

"I  won't." 

"I'll  make  you."    He  moved  a  step  toward  her. 

"Maybe  I  hadn't  better  come  any  more,"  she  said  quiz- 
zically. 

"Beth!" 

"Suppose  I  was  learnin*  to  love  you  a  little,"  she  went 
on  ironically,  "with  you  scared  I  might  be — and  not 
knowin*  how  to  get  out  of  it.  Wouldn't  that  be  terrible  \ 
For  me,  I  mean.  'She  loved  and  lost,  in  seven  ivels.'  " 

She  was  treading  on  precarious  ground,  and  she  must 
have  seen  her  danger  in  Peter's  face,  for  as  he  came  to- 
ward her  she  turned  and  ran  down  the  path,  laughing  at 
him.  Peter  followed  in  full  stride  but  she  ran  like  a  deer 
and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  creek  she  was  already 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


halfway  over  the  log- jam  below  the  pool.  Her  laugh 
still  derided  him  and  now,  eager  to  punish  her,  he  leaped 
after  her.  But  so  intent  he  was  on  keeping  her  in  sight 
upon  the  farther  bank  that  his  foot  slipped  on  a  tree 
trunk  and  he  went  into  the  water.  A  gay  peal  of  laughter 
echoed  in  his  ears.  And  he  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  her 
light  frock  as  it  vanished  into  the  underbrush.  But  he 
scrambled  up  the  bank  after  her  and  darted  along  the 
path — lost  her  in  the  dusk,  and  then  deep  in  the  woods 
at  one  side  saw  her  flitting  from  tree  to  tree  away  from 
him.  But  Peter's  blood  was  now  warm  with  the  chase — 
and  it  was  the  blood  of  Peter  Nicholaevitch  too.  For- 
gotten were  the  studious  hours  of  patience  and  toil.  Here 
was  a  girl  who  challenged  his  asceticism — a  beautiful 
young  female  animal  who  dared  to  mock  at  his  self-re- 
straint. She  thought  that  she  could  get  away.  But  he 
gained  on  her.  She  had  stopped  laughing  at  him  now. 

"Beth!  You  little  devil!"  he  cried  breathlessly,  as  he 
caught  her.  "You  little  devil,  I'll  teach  you  to  laugh 
at  me." 

"Let  me  go » 

«No " 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  while  she  struggled  vainly  to 
release  herself.  Her  flushed  face  was  now  a  little  fright- 
ened and  her  large  blue  eyes  stared  in  dismay  at  what  she 
saw  in  his  face. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  whispered.     "I  didn't  mean  it " 

But  he  only  held  her  closer  while  she  struggled,  as  he 
kissed  her — on  the  brows,  the  chin,  the  cheeks,  and  as  she 
relaxed  in  sheer  weakness — full  on  the  lips — again — 
again. 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  been  trying  to  keep  my  hands 
off  you  all  these  weeks?"  he  whispered.  "Do  you  think 
I  haven't  wanted  you — to  teach  you  what  women  were 
meant  for?  It's  for  this,  Beth — and  this.  Do  you  think 


THE  CHASE 


I  haven't  seen  how  lovely  you  are?  Do  you  think  I'm  a 
saint — an  anchorite?  Well,  I'm  not.  I'll  make  you  love 

me — love  me " 

Something  in  the  reckless  tones  of  his  voice — in  his 
very  words  aroused  her  to  new  struggles.  "Oh,  let  me 
go,"  she  gasped.  "I  don't  love  you.  I  won't.  Let  me 

go-" 

"You  shall!" 

"No.    Let  me  loose  or  I — I'll  despise  you " 

"Beth !" 

"I  mean  it.     Let  me  go." 

If  a  moment  ago  when  she  was  relaxed  in  his  arms  he 
had  thought  that  he  had  won  her,  he  had  no  such  notion 
now,  for  with  a  final  effort  of  her  strong  young  arms,  she 
thrust  away  from  him  and  stood  panting  and  disordered, 
staring  at  him  as  though  at  one  she  had  never  seen  before. 

"Oh — how  I  hate  you !" 

"Beth!" 

"I  mean  it.  You — you ,"  she  turned  away  from 

him,  staring  at  the  torn  music  on  the  ground  as  at  a 
symbol  of  her  disillusionment.  Peter  saw  her  look,  felt 
the  meaning  of  it,  tried  to  recall  the  words  he  had  said 
to  her  and  failed — but  sure  that  they  were  a  true  reflec- 
tion of  what  had  been  in  his  heart.  He  had  wanted  her — 
then — nothing  else  had  mattered — not  duty  or  his  set 
resolve.  .  .  . 

"You  mocked  at  me,  Beth,"  he  muttered.  «I  couldn't 
stand  that " 

"And  is  this  the  way  you  punish  me?  Ah,  if  you'd  only 
— if  you'd  only " 

And  then  with  another  glance  at  the  torn  music,  she 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  sobbing  violently. 

"Beth "  he  whispered,  gently,  "don't " 

"Go  away.    Oh,  go.    Go !" 

"I  can't.  I  won't.  What  did  you  want  me  to  say  to 
223  ' 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


you?  That  I  love  you?  I  do,  Beth — I  do,"  he  whispered. 
It  was  Peter  Nichols,  not  Peter  Nicholaevitch,  who  was 
whispering  now. 

"Was  this  what  your  teachin'  meant?"  she  flashed  at 
him  bitterly.  "Was  this  what  you  meant  when  you 
wanted  to  pay  my  way  in  New  York?  Oh,  how  you  shame 
me !  Go !  Go  away  from  me,  please." 

"Please  don't,"  he  whispered.  "You  don't  understand. 
I  never  meant  that.  I — I  love  you,  Beth.  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  cry.5* 

She  made  a  valiant  effort  to  control  her  heaving 
shoulders.  And  then, 

"Oh,  you — you've  spoiled  it  all.  S-spoiled  it  all,  and 
it  was  so  beautiful." 

Had  he?  Her  words  sobered  him.  No,  that  couldn't 
be.  He  cursed  his  momentary  madness,  struggling  for 
words  to  comfort  her,  but  he  had  known  that  she  had  seen 
the  look  in  his  eyes,  felt  the  roughness  of  his  embrace. 
Love?  The  love  that  she  had  sung  to  him  was  not  of 
these.  He  wanted  now  to  touch  her  again — gently,  to 
lift  up  her  flushed  face,  wet  like  a  flower  with  the  fresh 
dew  of  her  tears,  and  tell  her  what  love  was.  But  he 
didn't  dare — he  couldn't,  after  what  he  had  said  to  her. 
And  still  she  wept  over  her  broken  toys — the  music — the 
singing — for  they  had  mattered  the  most.  Very  childlike 
she  seemed,  very  tender  and  pathetic. 

"Beth,"  he  said  at  last,  touching  her  fingers  gently. 
"Nothing  is  changed,  Beth.  It  can't  be  changed,  dear. 
We've  got  to  go  on.  It  means  so  much  to — to  us  both." 

But  she  paid  no  attention  to  the  touch  of  his  fingers 
and  turned  away,  leaving  the  music  at  her  feet,  an  act  in 
itself  significant. 

"Let  me  go  home.  Please.  Alone.  I — I've  got  to 
think." 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  Peter  obeyed  her.     There 


THE  CHASE 


was  nothing  else  to  do.  There  was  something  in  the  clear 
depths  of  her  eyes  that  had  daunted  him.  And  he  had 
meant  her  harm.  Had  he?  He  didn't  know.  He  passed 
his  hand  slowly  across  his  eyes  and  then  stood  watching 
her  until  she  had  disappeared  among  the  trees.  When 
she  had  gone  he  picked  up  the  torn  music.  It  was  Mas- 
senet's "Elegie." 

O  doux  printemps  d'autrefois.  .  .  . 
Tout  est  fletrie. 

The  lines  of  the  torn  pieces  came  together.  Spring 
withered!  The  joyous  songs  of  birds — silenced!  Beth's 
song?  He  smiled.  No,  that  couldn't  be.  He  folded  the 
music  up  and  strode  off  slowly,  muttering  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TWO  LETTERS 

PETER  passed  a  troublous  evening  and  night — a 
night  of  -  self-revelations.     Never  that  he  could  re- 
member had  he  so  deeply  felt  the  sting  of  con- 
science.    He,  the  Grand  Duke  Peter  Nicholaevitch,   in 
love  with  this  little  rustic?     Impossible!     It  was  the  real 
Peter,   tired   of   the   sham   and   make-believe   of    self-re- 
straint and  virtue,  who  had  merely  kissed  a  country  girl. 
He  was  no  anchorite,  no  saint.    Why  had  he  tied  himself 
to  such  a  duty  from  a  motive  of  silly  sentimentalism? 

He  winced  at  the  word.  Was  it  that?  Sentimentalism. 
He  had  shown  her  the  best  side  of  him — shown  it  persist- 
ently, rather  proud  of  his  capacity  for  self-control,  which 
had  ridden  even  with  his  temptations.  Why  should  it 
mailer  so  much  to  him  what  this  girl  thought  of  him? 
What  had  he  said  to  her?  Nothing  much  that  he  hadn't 
said  to  other  women.  It  was  the  fact  that  he  had  said  it 
to  Beth  that  made  the  difference.  The  things  one  might 
say  to  other  women  meant  something  different  to  Beth — 
the  things  one  might  do.  .  .  .  He  had  been  a  fool  and 
lost  his  head,  handled  her  roughly,  spoken  to  her  wildly, 
words  only  intended  for  gentle  moods,  softer  purposes. 
Shrewd  little  Beth,  whose  wide,  blue  eyes  had  seen  right 
down  into  the  depths  of  his  heart.  He  had  been  clumsy, 
if  nothing  else,  and  he  had  always  thought  that  clumsi- 
ness was  inexcusable.  He  had  a  guilty  sense  that  while 
Beth  was  still  the  little  lady  to  her  finger  tips,  born  to  a 
natural  nobility,  he,  the  Grand  Duke  Peter,  had  been  the 
226 


TWO  LETTERS 


boor,  the  vulgar  proletarian.  The  look  in  her  eyes  had 
shamed  him  as  the  look  in  his  own  eyes  had  shamed  her. 
She  had  known  what  his  wooing  meant,  and  it  hadn't  been 
what  she  wanted.  The  mention  of  love  on  lips  that  kissed 
as  his  had  done  was  blasphemy. 

Yes.  He  cared  what  she  thought  of  him — and  he  vainly 
cast  about  for  a  way  in  which  to  justify  himself.  To 
make  matters  worse  Beth  still  believed  that  this  was  the 
payment  he  exacted  for  what  he  had  done  for  her,  what 
he  had  proposed  to  do  for  her,  that  he  measured  her 
favors  in  terms  of  value  received.  What  else  could  she 
think  but  that?  Every  hour  of  his  devotion  to  her  music 
defamed  her. 

The  situation  was  intolerable.  In  the  morning  he  went 
seeking  her  at  her  home.  The  house  was  open.  No  one 
in  Black  Rock  village  locked  doors  by  day  or  night. 
Beth  was  not  there.  A  neighbor  said  that  she  had  gone 
early  alone  into  the  woods  and  Peter  understood.  If  she 
hadn't  cared  for  him  she  wouldn't  have  needed  to  go  to 
the  woods  to  be  alone.  Of  course  she  didn't  appear  at 
the  Cabin  the  next  day,  and  Peter  searched  for  her — 
fruitlessly.  She  weighed  on  his  conscience,  like  a  sin  un- 
shrived.  He  had  to  find  her  to  explain  the  unexplainable, 
to  tell  her  what  her  confidence  had  meant  to  him,  to  re- 
cant his  blasphemy  of  her  idols  in  gentleness  and  re- 
pentance. 

As  he  failed  to  find  her,  he  wrote  her  a  note,  asking  her 
forgiveness,  and  stuck  it  in  the  mirror  of  the  old  hat- 
rack  in  the  hall.  Many  women  in  Europe  and  elsewhere, 
ladies  of  the  great  world  that  Beth  had  only  dreamed 
about,  would  have  given  their  ears  (since  ear  puffs  were 
in  fashion)  to  receive  such  a  note  from  Peter.  It  was  a 
beautiful  note  besides — manly,  gentle,  breathing  con- 
trition and  self-reproach.  Beth  merely  ignored  it. 
227 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Whatever  she  thought  of  it  and  of  Peter  she  wanted  to 
deliberate  a  longer  while. 

And  so  another  music  lesson  hour  passed  while  Peter 
sat  alone  in  the  Cabin  waiting.  That  night  two  letters 
were  brought  to  him.  The  superscription  of  one  was 
scrawled  in  a  boyish  hand.  The  other  was  scented,  dainty, 
of  pale  lavender,  and  bore  a  familiar  handwriting  and  a 
familiar  coronet.  In  amazement  he  opened  this  first.  It 
was  from  the  Princess  Galitzin,  written  in  the  polyglot 
of  French,  English  and  Russian  which  she  affected. 

"CHERE  PIERRE,"  It  ran,— in  the  English,  somewhat  as  follows:  "You 
will  no  doubt  be  surprised  at  hearing  from  me  in  far-off  America 
and  amazed  at  the  phenomenon  of  your  discovered  address  at  the 
outlandish  place  you've  chosen  for  your  domicile.  It's  very  simple. 
In  America  you  have  been  watched  by  agents  of  the  so-called  govern- 
ment of  our  wretched  country.  We  know  this  here  in  London,  be- 
cause one  of  our  agents  is  also  a  part  of  their  secret  organization. 
He  came  upon  the  report  of  your  doings  and  knowing  that  father 
was  interested,  detailed  the  information  to  us. 

"So  far  as  I  can  learn  at  the  present  writing  you  are  in  no  imme- 
diate danger  of  death,  but  we  do  not  know  here  in  London  how  soon 
the  word  may  be  sent  forth  to  'remove*  persons  of  your  importance 
in  the  cosmic  scheme.  It  seems  that  your  desire  to  remain  completely 
in  hiding  is  looked  upon  with  suspicion  in  Russia  as  evidence  of  a 
possible  intention  on  your  part  to  come  to  light  at  the  beginnings  of  a 
Bourbon  movement  and  proclaim  yourself  as  the  leader  of  a  Royalist 
party.  Your  uncles  and  cousins  have  chosen  the  line  of  least  re- 
sistance in  yielding  to  the  inevitable,  living  in  Switzerland,  and  other 
spots  where  their  identities  are  M'ell  known. 

"I  pray,  my  well  remembered  and  bel  ami,  that  the  cause  of  Holy 
Russia  is  still  and  ever  present  in  your  heart  of  hearts  and  that  the 
thing  these  devils  incarnate  fear  may  one  day  come  to  pass.  But  I 
pray  you  to  be  discreet  and  watchful,  if  necessary  changing  your 
place  of  abode  to  one  in  which  you  will  enjoy  greater  security  from 
your  enemies.  There  is  at  last  one  heart  in  London  that  ever  beats 
fondly  in  memory  of  the  dear  dead  days  at  Galitzin  and  Zukovo. 

"Helas!  London  is  dead  sea  fruit.  People  are  very  kind  to  us. 
We  have  everything  that  the  law  allows  us,  but  life  seems  to  have 
lost  its  charm.  I  have  never  quite  forgiven  you,  mon  Pierre,  for 
your  desertion  of  us  at  Constantinople,  though  doubtless  your  reasons 
for  preserving  your  incognito  were  of  the  best.  But  it  has  saddened 
me  to  think  that  you  did  not  deem  me  worthy  of  a  closer  confidence. 

228 


TWO  LETTERS 


You  are  doubtless  very  much  alone  and  unhappy — also  in  danger 
not  only  from  your  political  enemies,  but  also  from  the  American 
natives  in  the  far  away  woods  in  which  you  have  been  given  occupa- 
tion. I  trust,  such  as  it  is,  that  you  have  taken  adequate  measures 
to  protect  yourself.  I  know  little  of  America,  but  I  have  a  longing 
to  go  to  that  splendid  country,  rugged  hi  its  primitive  simplicity, 
in  spite  of  inconveniences  of  travel  and  the  mass  of  uncultured 
beings  with  whom  one  must  come  into  contact.  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  possible  for  a  spoiled  creature  like  me  to  find  a  boudoir 
with  a  bath — that  is,  in  the  provinces,  outside  of  New  York? 

"It  is  terrible  that  you  can  have  no  music  in  your  life!  I  too 
miss  your  music,  Pietro  mio,  as  I  miss  you.  Perhaps  one  day  soon 
you  will  see  me.  I  am  restless  and  bored  to  extinction,  with  these 
ramrods  of  Englishmen  who  squeeze  my  rings  into  my  fingers.  But 
if  I  come  I  will  be  discreet  toward  Peter  Nichols.  That  was  a 
clever  invention  of  yours.  It  really  sounds — quite — American. 

"Garde  toi  bwn,  entendez  vous?  Tout  de  suite  je  viendrai.  An 
revoir.  "ANASTASIE." 

Peter  read  the  letter  through  twice,  amused,  astounded 
and  dismayed  by  turns.  His  surmise  in  regard  to  the 
stranger  with  the  black  mustache  had  been  correct  then. 
The  man  was  a  spy  of  the  Russian  Soviets.  And  so 
instead  of  having  been  born  immaculate  into  a  new  life, 
as  he  had  hoped — a  man  without  a  past,  and  only  a 
future  to  be  accounted  for — he  was  only  the  Grand  Duke 
Peter  after  all.  And  Anastasie!  Why  the  devil  did  she 
want  to  come  nosing  about  in  America,  reminding  him 
of  all  the  things  that  he  wanted  to  forget?  The  odor 
of  her  sachet  annoyed  him.  A  bath  and  boudoir!  He 
realized  now  that  she  had  always  annoyed  him  with  her 
pretty  silly  little  affectations  and  her  tawdry  smatter- 
ings of  the  things  that  were  worth  while.  He  owed  her 
nothing.  He  had  made  love  to  her,  of  course,  because 
that  was  what  a  woman  of  her  type  expected  from  men 
of  his.  But  there  had  been  no  damage  done  on  either 
side,  for  he  had  not  believed  that  she  had  ever  really 
cared.  And  now  distance,  it  seemed,  had  made  her  heart 
grow  fonder,  distance  and  the  romantic  circumstances  of 
his  exile. 

229 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


It  was  kind  of  her,  of  course,  to  let  him  know  of  his 
danger,  but  only  human  after  all.  She  could  have  done 
no  less,  having  the  information.  And  now  she  was  com- 
ing to  offer  him  the  charity  of  her  wealth,  to  tempt 
him  with  ease,  luxury  and  London.  He  would  have  none 
of  them. 

He  picked  up  the  other  letter  with  even  more  curiosity 
until  he  read  the  postmark,  and  then  his  interest  became 
intense,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  from  Jim  Coast — Hawk 
Kennedy.  The1  letter  bore  the  heading,  "Antlers  Hotel, 
Colorado  Springs." 

"DEAR  PETE,"  he  read,  through  the  bad  spelling,  "Here  I  am  back 
at  the  'Springs,'  at  the  'Antlers,'  after  a  nice  trip  down  Bisbee  way, 
and  out  along  the  'J.  and  A.'  to  the  mine.  It's  there  all  right  and 
they're  workin'  it  yet  to  beat  the  cards  with  half  a  mountain  still  to 
be  tapped.  I  ain't  going  into  particulars — not  in  a  letter,  except  to 
tell  you  that  I  got  what  I  went  for — names,  dates  and  amounts — 
also  met  the  gents  our  friend  sold  out  to — nice  people.  Oh,  I'm 
'Al'  with  that  outfit,  old  dear.  I'm  just  writing  this  to  show  you 
I'm  on  the  job  and  that  if  you've  got  an  eye  to  business  you'd  better 
consider  my  proposition.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while.  You  can 
help  all  right.  You  did  me  a  good  turn  that  night.  I'll  give  you 
yours  if  you'll  stand  in  proper  and  make  McG.  do  what's  right. 
It  ain't  what  you  said  it  was — it's  justice  all  around.  That's  all 
I'm  asking — what's  right  and  proper. 

"I  ain't  coming  back  just  yet,  not  for  a  month,  maybe.  I'm 
living  easy  and  there's  a  lady  here  that  suits  my  fancy.  So  just 
drop  me  a  line  at  the  above  address,  letting  me  know  everything's 
O.  K.  Remember  I'm  no  piker  and  I'll  fix  you  up  good. 

"Your  friend, 

"JlM." 

Peter  clenched  the  paper  in  his  fist  and  threw  it  on 
the  floor,  frowning  angrily  at  the  thought  of  the  man's 
audacity.  But  after  a  while  he  picked  the  crumpled  note 
up  and  straightened  it  out  upon  the  table,  carefully  re- 
reading it.  Its  very  touch  seemed  to  soil  his  fingers, 
but  he  studied  it  for  a  long  while,  and  then  folded  it 
up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  very  careful  game 
230 


TWO  LETTERS 


that  Peter  would  have  to  play  with  Hawk  Kennedy,  a 
game  that  he  had  no  liking  for.  But  if  he  expected  to 
succeed  in  protecting  McGuire,  he  would  have  to  outwit 
Jim  Coast — or  Hawk  Kennedy,  as  he  now  thought  of 
him — by  playing  a  game  just  a  little  deeper  than  his  own. 

Of  course  he  now  had  the  advantage  of  knowing  the 
whole  of  McGuire's  side  of  the  story,  while  Kennedy  did 
not  believe  the  old  man  would  have  dared  to  tell.  And 
to  hold  these  cards  successfully  it  would  be  necessary  to 
continue  in  Kennedy's  mind  the  belief  that  Peter  did  not 
share  McGuire's  confidences.  It  would  also  be  neces- 
sary for  Peter  to  cast  in  his  lot,  apparently,  with 
Kennedy  against  McGuire.  It  was  a  dirty  business  at 
best,  but  he  meant  to  carry  it  through  if  he  could,  and 
get  the  signed  agreement  from  the  blackmailer. 

Peter  seemed  to  remember  an  old  wallet  that  Jim  Coast 
had  always  carried.  He  had  seen  it  after  Coast  had 
taken  slips  of  paper  from  it  and  showed  them  to  Peter, — 
newspaper  clippings,  notes  from  inamorata  and  the  like — 
but  of  course,  never  the  paper  now  in  question.  And 
if  he  had  carried  it  all  these  years,  where  was  it  now? 
In  the  vault  of  some  bank  or  trust  company  probably, 
and  this  would  make  Peter's  task  difficult,  if  not  im- 
possible. 

Peter  got  up  and  paced  the  floor,  thinking  deeply  of 
all  these  things  in  their  relation  to  Beth.  And  then  at 
last  he  went  out  into  the  night,  his  footsteps  impelled 
toward  the  village.  After  all,  the  thoughts  uppermost 
in  his  mind  were  of  Beth  herself.  Whatever  the  cost  to 
his  pride,  he  would  have  to  make  his  peace  with  her. 
He  knew  that  now.  Why  otherwise  did  his  restless  feet 
lead  him  out  into  the  pasture  back  of  the  little  post 
office  toward  the  rear  of  Mrs.  Bergen's  house?  Yet 
there  he  found  himself  presently,  smoking  his  corncob 
pipe  for  comfort,  and  staring  at  the  solitary  light  in 
231 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Tillie  Bergen's  parlor,  which  proclaimed  its  occupant. 
Mrs.  Bergen's  house  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  its 
nearest  neighbor,  and  Peter  stole  slowly  through  the 
orchard  at  the  rear  toward  the  open  window.  It  was 
then  that  he  heard  the  music  for  the  first  time,  the  "har- 
monium" wailing  softly,  while  sweet  and  clear  above  the 
accompaniment  (worked  out  painstakingly  but  lovingly 
by  the  girl  herself)  came  Beth's  voice  singing  the 
"Elegie." 

Peter  came1  closer  until  he  was  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
shadow  outside  the  window.  He  knew  that  her  back 
would  be  turned  to  him  and  so  he  peered  around  the  shut- 
ter at  her  unconscious  back.  She  sang  the  song  through 
until  the  end  and  then  after  a  pause  sang  it  again.  Peter 
had  no  ear  now  for  the  phrasing,  for  faults  in  technique, 
or  inaccuracies  in  enunciation.  What  he  heard  was  the 
soul  of  the  singer  calling.  All  that  he  had  taught  her  in 
the  hours  in  the  Cabin  was  in  her  voice — and  something 
more  that  she  had  learned  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Her  voice  was 
richer — deeper,  a  child's  voice  no  longer,  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  singing  of  his  mad  moment  in  the  woods, 
which  had  brought  the  end  of  all  things  that  had  mat- 
tered in  her  life.  It  was  no  girl  who  sang  now,  but  a 
woman  who  had  learned  the  meaning  of  the  song,  the 
plaint  of  birds  once  joyous,  of  woodland  flowers  once  gay 
— at  the  memory  of  a  spring  that  was  no  more.  He  had 
told  her  that  she  would  sing  that  song  well  some  day 
when  she  learned  what  it  meant.  She  would  never  sing 
it  again  as  she  had  sung  it  to-night.  All  the  dross  that 
Peter  had  worn  in  the  world  was  stripped  from  him  in 
that  moment,  all  that  was  petty  and  ignoble  in  his  heart 
driven  forth  and  he  stood  with  bowed  head,  in  shame  for 
what  he  had  been,  and  in  gentleness  for  this  dear  creature 
whose  idols  he  had  cast  down. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  verse,  her  fingers  slipped  from 


TWO  LETTERS 


the  keys  and  fell  to  her  sides  while  she  bowed  her  head 
and  sat  for  a  moment  immovable.  And  then  her  shoulders 
moved  slightly  and  a  tiny  smothered  sound  came  from 
her  throat.  Suddenly  her  head  bent  and  she  fell  forward 
on  her  arms  upon  the  muted  keys. 

Noiselessly  he  passed  over  the  low  windowsill  and  be- 
fore she  even  knew  that  he  was  there,  fell  to  his  knees 
beside  her. 

"Beth,"  he  whispered.     "Don't— child— don't !" 

She  straightened,  startled  and  incredulous  at  the  sight 
of  him,  and  tried  to  move  away,  but  he  caught  one  of  her 
hands  and  with  bent  head  gently  laid  his  lips  upon  it. 

"Don't,  Beth — please.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
cry » 

"I — I'm  not  crying,"  she  stammered  helplessly,  while 
she  winked  back  her  tears,  "I — I've  just — just  got  the — 
the — stomachache." 

She  tried  to  laugh — failing  dismally  in  a  sob. 

"Oh,  Beth— don't "  he  whispered. 

"I— I  can't  help  it— if  I— I've  got  a-a  pain,"  she 
evaded  him. 

"But  I  can,"  he  murmured.  "It's  in  your  heart,  Beth. 
I'm  sorry  for  everything.  Forgive  me." 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive." 

"Please!" 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  repeated  dully.  But 
she  had  controlled  her  voice  now  and  her  fingers  in  his 
were  struggling  for  release. 

"I  was  a  brute,  Beth.  I'd  give  everything  to  have 
those  moments  back.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world. 
See — how  changed  I  am " 

She  released  her  fingers  and  turned  slightly  away. 

"I — I'm  changed  too,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  murmured. 

"No.  You  mustn't  be,  Beth.  And  I've  got  to  have 
you  back.  You've  got  to  come  back  to  me,  Beth." 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Things  can't  be  the  same  now." 

« Yes— just  the  same " 

"No.     Something's  gone." 

"But  if  something  else  has  taken  its  place " 

"Nothing  can " 

"Something  greater " 

"I  don't  care  for  the  sample  you  showed  me,"  she  re- 
turned quietly. 

"I  was  crazy,  Beth.  I  lost  my  head.  It  won't  hap- 
pen again." 

"No.    I  know  it  won't " 

"You  don't  understand.  It  couldn't.  I've  made  a  fool 
of  myself.  Isn't  it  enough  for  me  to  admit  that?" 

"I  knew  it  all  the  time."  She  was  cruel,  and  from  her 
cruelty  he  guessed  the  measure  of  her  pride. 

"I've  done  all  I  can  to  atone.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  love  you.  I  do,  Beth.  I  love  you " 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  different  from  that  she 
had  heard  the  other  day.  His  head  was  bent  and  he  did 
not  hear  the  little  gasp  or  see  the  startled  look  in  her 
eyes,  which  she  controlled  before  he  raised  his  head.  With 
great  deliberateness  she  answered  him. 

"Maybe  you  and  I — have  a  different  idea  of  what  love 
ought  to  be,"  she  said.  But  he  saw  that  her  reproof  was 
milder. 

"I  know,"  he  insisted.     "You've  sung  it  to  me " 

"No — not  to  you — not  love,"  she  said,  startled.  And 
then,  "You  had  no  right  to  be  listenin'."  And  then,  with 
a  glance  at  Aunt  Tillie's  clock,  "You  have  no  right  to  be 
here  now.  It's  late." 

"But  I  can't  go  until  you  understand  what  I  want  to 
do  for  you.  You  say  that  I  can't  know  what  love  is.  It 
asks  nothing  and  only  gives.  I  swear  I  wanted  to  give 
without  thought  of  a  return — until  you  laughed  at  me. 


TWO  LETTERS 


And  then — I  wanted  to  punish  you  because  you  wouldn't 
understand " 

"Yes.    You  punished  me " 

"Forgive  me.  You  shouldn't  have  laughed  at  me,  Beth. 
If  you  knew  everything,  you'd  understand  that  I'm  doing 
it  all  without  a  hope  of  payment, — just  because  I've  got 
to." 

Her  eyes  grew  larger.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now — but  something  has  happened 
that  will  make  a  great  difference  to  you." 

"What?" 

"Forgive  me.  Come  to-morrow  and  perhaps  I'll  tell 
you.  We've  already  wasted  two  days." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  they've  been  wasted,"  said  Beth  quietly. 

"I  don't  care  if  you'll  only  come.  Will  you,  Beth? 
To-morrow?" 

She  nodded  gravely  at  last. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said.  And  then,  gently,  "Good-night, 
Mr.  Nichols." 

So  Peter  kissed  her  fingers  as  though  she  had  been  his 
Czarina  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XV 
SUPERMAN 

OF  course  Beth  Cameron  knew  nothing  of  Russia's 
grand  dukes.  The  only  Duke  that  she  had  ever 
met  was  in  the  pages  of  the  novel  she  had  read  in 
which  the  hero  was  named  Algernon.  That  Duke  was  of 
the  English  variety,  proud,  crusty,  and  aged  and  had 
only  made  an  unpleasant  impression  upon  her  because  she 
had  liked  Algernon,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Duke,  and  the  Duke  had  been  very  horrid  to 
him  in  consequence  or  by  reason  of  that  mishap.  When 
she  had  said  to  Peter  that  he  reminded  her  of  Algernon 
she  had  meant  it,  and  that  was  really  very  nice  of  her,  be- 
cause she  thought  Algernon  all  that  a  self-respecting 
hero  should  be.  It  was  true  that  Peter,  though  mostly 
an  Englishman,  didn't  play  polo  and  ride  to  hounds  or 
swagger  around  a  club  and  order  people  about,  because 
he  was  too  poor  and  was  obliged  to  work  for  his  living. 
But  he  did  remind  her  of  Algernon  somehow.  He  had  a 
way  with  him,  as  though  if  there  had  been  butlers  and 
valets  at  Black  Rock  he  could  have  swaggered  and  ordered 
them  around  if  he'd  had  a  mind  to.  He  was  good  look- 
ing too.  She  had  noted  that  even  from  the  very  first 
when  she  had  found  him  lugging  his  suitcase  down  on  the 
road  from  Pickerel  River.  Then  too  he  did  say  things 
to  her,  nicer  things  than  any  fellow  had  ever  known  how 
to  say  to  her  before,  and  he  was  much  more  polite  than 
she  had  ever  believed  it  possible  for  any  one  to  be  without 
seeming  queer.  But  when,  eavesdropping  at  McGuire's, 
236 


SUPERMAN 


she  had  heard  Peter  play  the  piano,  she  felt  herself  con- 
ducted into  a  new  world  which  had  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  glass  factories  and  vineyards.  Even  the  sartorial 
splendor  of  Miss  Peggy  McGuire  paled  into  insignifi- 
cance beside  the  new  visions  which  the  music  of  Peter 
Nichols  had  invoked.  He  hadn't  just  lied  to  her.  He 
was  a  musician.  He  could  play.  She  had  never  heard 
anybody  bring  from  a  piano  sounds  like  these.  And  he 
had  said  he  wanted  her  to  sing  for  him. 

Beth  had  sung  always — just  as  she  had  always  breathed 
— but  she  had  never  heard  any  good  music  except  on  a 
talking  machine  at  the  boarding  house  at  Glassboro — 
an  old  record  of  Madame  Melba's  that  they  played  some- 
times. But  even  that  song  from  an  opera  ( "Lay  Boheem" 
they  called  it),  mutilated  as  it  was,  had  shown  her  that 
there  was  something  more  wonderful  than  the  popular 
melodies  that  the  other  people  liked.  Beth's  taste  for 
good  music,  like  her  taste  for  nice  people,  was  instinctive. 
And  she  had  found  that  in  her  walk  of  life  the  one  was 
about  as  difficult  to  find  as  the  other.  She  had  had  her 
awakenings  and  her  disillusionments,  with  women  as  well 
as  men,  but  had  emerged  from  her  experiences  of  two  win- 
ters in  a  factory  town  with  her  chin  high  and  her  heart 
pure — something  of  an  achievement  for  one  as  pretty  as 
Beth. 

All  in  all,  she  had  liked  Shad  Wells  better  than  any 
of  the  men  she  had  met.  He  was  rough,  but  she  had  dis- 
covered that  good  manners  didn't  always  mean  good 
hearts  or  clean  minds. 

It  was  this  discovery  that  had  made  her  look  askance 
at  Peter  Nichols  when  she  had  first  met  him  on  the  road, 
for  he  was  politer  than  anybody  she  had  ever  met.  If 
her  philosophy  was  to  be  consistent  this  new  superin- 
tendent would  need  watching.  But  his  music  disarmed  her 
and  captured  her  imagination.  And  then  came  the  inci- 
237 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


dent  of  the  jealous  Shad  and  the  extraordinary  outcome 
of  Mr.  Nichols's  championship  of  her  rights.  She  had 
witnessed  that  fight  from  the  shelter  of  the  bushes.  It 
had  been  dreadful  but  glorious.  Peter's  chivalry  appealed 
to  her — also  his  strength.  From  that  moment  he  was 
superman. 

Then  had  followed  the  long  wonderful  weeks  of  music 
at  the  Cabin,  in  which  she  had  learned  the  beginnings  of 
culture  and  training.  Her  music-master  opened  new  and 
beautiful  vistas  for  her,  told  her  of  the  great  musicians 
and  singers  that  the  world  had  known,  described  the  opera 
houses  of  Europe,  the  brilliant  audiences,  the  splendid 
ballets,  the  great  orchestras,  and  promised  her  that  if 
she  worked  hard,  she  might  one  day  become  a  part  of  all 
this.  She  had  learned  to  believe  him  now,  for  she  saw 
that  as  time  went  on  he  was  more  exacting  with  her  work, 
more  sparing  in  his  praise  of  her,  and  she  had  worked 
hard — in  despair  at  times,  but  with  a  slowly  growing  con- 
fidence in  her  star  of  destiny. 

And  all  the  while  she  was  wondering  why  Peter  Nichols 
was  doing  this  for  her  and  what  the  outcome  of  it  all 
was  to  be.  He  spoke  little  of  the  future  except  to  hint 
vaguely  at  lessons  elsewhere  when  he  had  taught  her  all 
that  he  knew.  The  present  it  seemed  was  sufficient  for 
them  both.  His  moods  of  soberness,  of  joy,  of  enthusiasm, 
were  all  catching  and  she  followed  him  blindly,  aware  of 
this  great  new  element  in  her  life  which  was  to  make  the 
old  life  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  He  treated  her  always 
with  respect,  not  even  touching  her  arms  or  waist  in  pass- 
ing— an  accepted  familiarity  of  men  by  girls  of  her  social 
class.  Beth  understood  that  it  was  a  consideration  due 
to  a  delicate  situation,  the  same  consideration  which  had 
impelled  her  always  to  call  him  Mr.  Nichols. 

And  yet  it  was  this  very  consideration  of  Peter's  that 
vexed  her.  It  wasn't  an  air  of  superiority,  for  she 
238 


SUPERMAN 


couldn't  have  stood  that.  It  was  just  discretion,  maybe, 
or  something  else,  she  couldn't  decide  what.  But  Beth 
didn't  want  to  be  put  in  a  glass  case  like  the  wax  flowers 
at  home.  Her  voice  was  a  mere  mechanical  instrument, 
as  he  had  taken  pains  so  often  to  tell  her,  but  he  seemed 
to  be  making  the  mistake  of  thinking  her  a  mechanical 
instrument  too.  She  wasn't.  She  was  very  much  alive, 
tingling  with  vitality,  very  human  under  her  demure  as- 
pect during  the  singing  lessons,  and  it  had  bothered  her 
that  Peter  shouldn't  know  it.  His  ignorance,  his  indif- 
ference affronted  her.  Didn't  he  see  what  she  looked  like? 
Didn't  he  see  that  she  might  be  worth  making  love  to  ... 
just  a  little,  a  very  little  .  .  .  once  in  a  while? 

The  clouds  had  broken  suddenly,  almost  without  warn- 
ing, when  he  had  talked  like  a  professor — about  sentiment 
— apologized — that  was  what  he  had  done — apologized 
for  not  making  love  to  her!  Oh! 

And  then  things  had  happened  swiftly — incredible,  un- 
believable things.  The  lightning  had  flashed  and  it  had 
shown  an  ugly  Mr.  Nichols — a  different  Mr.  Nichols  from 
anything  that  she  could  have  imagined  of  him.  The  things 
he  had  said  to  her  ...  his  kisses  .  .  .  shameful  things ! 
A  hundred  times  she  had  brushed  them  off  like  the  vision 
of  him  from  her  mind.  And  still  they  returned,  warm  and 
pulsing  to  her  lips.  And  still  the  vision  of  him  returned 
— remained.  He  had  been  so  nice  to  her  before.  .  .  . 
•  •»•••• 

Now  Beth  sat  in  the  big  chair  opposite  Peter  in  the 
Cabin  by  the  log  fire  (for  the  evenings  were  getting  cool) 
while  he  finished  telling  her  about  the  death  of  Ben  Cam- 
eron, of  the  murder  and  of  Jonathan  K.  McGuire's  share 
in  the  whole  terrible  affair.  It  was  with  some  misgivings, 
even  after  swearing  her  to  secrecy,  that  he  told  her  what 
he  had  learned  through  Kennedy  and  McGuire.  And  she 
had  listened,  wide-eyed.  Her  father  of  course  was  only 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


the  shadow  of  a  memory  to  her,  the  evil  shade  in  a  half- 
forgotten  dream,  and  therefore  it  was  not  grief  that  she 
could  feel,  not  even  sorrow  for  one  who  in  life  had  been  so 
vile,  even  if  his  miserable  death  had  been  so  tragic — only 
horror  and  dismay  at  the  thought  of  the  perpetrator  of 
the  infamy.  And  not  until  Peter  had  come  to  the  end  of 
the  story  did  she  realize  what  this  revelation  meant,  that 
the  very  foundation  of  McGuire's  great  fortune  was  laid 
upon  property  which  belonged  to  her. 

"Out  of  all  this  evil  must  come  some  good,  Beth,"  he 
finished  soberly.  "That  copper  mine  was  yours.  Mc- 
Guire  took  it  and  he  is  going  to  pay  you  what  he  owes." 

Beth  had  already  exhausted  all  the  expletives  of  horror 
and  amazement,  and  now  for  a  moment  this  last  informa- 
tion staggered  her  and  she  stared  at  him  unbelieving. 

"Pay  me?     I  can't  believe " 

"It  was  your  property  by  every  law  of  God  and  man, 
and  I  mean  that  you  shall  have  it.'*  He  paused  and 
smiled  softly.  "You  see,  Beth,  you  won't  need  to  depend 
on  me  now  for  your  training." 

"Oh — then  this  was  what  you  meant " 

**What  I  meant  when  I  said  that  you  should  owe  me 
nothing — that  I " 

"But  I  will  owe  you — everything.  I  shall  still  owe  you 
everything."  And  then,  wonderingly,  "And  just  to  think 
of  my  livin'  here  all  this  time  so  near  the  man — and  not 

knowin'  about "     Her  words  trailed  off  into  silent 

astonishment. 

"Yes.  And  to  think  of  his  making  his  fortune  on  money 
that  belonged  to  you!  Millions.  And  he's  going  to  pay 
you  what  he  got  out  of  the  Tarantula  mine^-every  dol- 
lar with  interest  to  date." 

"But  how  can  you  make  him  do  that?"  she  cried  eager- 
ly.   "What  proof  have  you  got?" 
240 


SUPERMAN 


He  smiled  grimly  into  the  fire  as  he  poked  a  fallen  log 
into  the  blaze. 

"Blackmail  is  an  ugly  word,  Beth.  But  it  shouldn't  be 
blackmail,  if  silence  is  the  price  of  getting  what  really  be- 
longs to  you.  McGuire  is  using  your  money — and  he 
must  give  it  to  you.  It's  your  money — not  his.  If  he 
won't  give  it  to  you  of  his  own  free  will,  he  will  give  it 
against  his  will." 

"But  how  can  you  make  him  do  that?"  asked  Beth 
timidly. 

"By  saving  him  from  Hawk  Kennedy.  That's  my 
price — and  yours." 

"But  how  can  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  got  to  fight  Kennedy  with  his  own 
weapons — outwit  him.  And  I've  thought  out  a  plan " 

"But  he's  dangerous.  You  mustn't  take  any  further 
risks  with  a  man  like  that  for  me." 

Peter  only  smiled. 

"It  will  amuse  me,  Beth.    And  besides "    He  bent 

forward  to  tend  the  fire,  his  face  immediately  grave  again. 
"Besides — I  think  I  owe  you  that,  now." 

She  understood  what  he  meant  and  thrilled  gently.  Her 
joy  had  come  back  to  her  with  a  rush.  All  through  the 
music  lesson  and  through  the  recital  of  the  tale  of  mystery 
she  had  hung  breathlessly  on  his  words  and  watched  the 
changing  expression  on  his  features  as  he  talked  into  the 
fire.  This  was  her  Mr.  Nichols  who  was  speaking  now, 
her  friend  and  mentor,  who  wanted  her  to  understand  that 
this  was  his  way  of  atonement.  But  she  ignored  his  last 
remark,  to  Beth  the  most  important  of  the  entire  con- 
versation. 

"How — how  much  will  the — the  money  amount  to?" 
she  asked  timidly. 

Peter  laughed. 

241 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"Figure  it  out  for  yourself.  Half  a  million — six  per 
cent — fifteen  years " 

"Half  a  million  dollars !" 

"A  million — or  more !" 

"A  million !  God-a-mercy !" 

Peter  recognized  one  of  Aunt  Tillie's  expressions, 
Beth's  vocabulary  being  inadequate  to  the  situation. 

"But  you  haven't  got  it  yet,"  he  said. 

"And  I  daren't  think  of  gettin'  it.  I  won't  think  of 
it.  I'd  get  my  brain  so  full  of  things  I  wanted  it  would 
just  naturally  bust.  Oh  lordy !" 

Peter  laughed. 

"You  do  want  a  lot  of  things,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course.  A  silk  waist,  a  satin  skirt,  some  silk  stock- 
ings— but  most  of  all,  a  real  sure  enough  piano,"  she 
gasped.  And  then,  as  though  in  reproach  of  her  selfish- 
ness, "And  I  could  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  Aunt  Tillie's 
farm  back  in  the  clearing!" 

"How  much  is  that?" 

"Three  thousand  dollars.  I've  already  paid  off  three 
hundred." 

"There  ought  to  be  enough  for  that,"  said  Peter 
soberly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Nichols.  I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  an  awful 
fool  talkin'  this  way." 

"Not  unless  you  think  /  am." 

"But  it  is  nice  to  dream  of  things  sometimes." 

"Yes.     I  do  that  too.     What  do  you  dream  of,  Beth?" 

"Oh,  of  bein'  a  great  singer,  mostly — standin'  on  a 
stage  with  people  lookin'  up  and  clappin*  their  hands  at 
me." 

"What  else?" 

"Oh,"  she  laughed  gayly,  "I  used  to  dream  of  marryin' 
a  prince — all  girls  do.  But  there  ain't  any  princes  now 
to  marry." 


SUPERMAN 


"No,  that's  true,"  he  assented.  "The  old  world  hasn't 
any  use  for  princes  now."  And  then,  "But  why  did  you 
want  to  marry  a  prince?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  just  fairy  tales.  Haven't  you 
ever  lived  in  a  fairy  tale  and  loved  a  princess  ?" 

"Yes,  I've  lived  in  a  fairy  tale,  but  I've  never  loved  a 
princess." 

"I  guess  if  everybody  knew,"  said  Beth  with  conviction, 
"the  princes  in  Europe  are  a  pretty  bad  lot." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "I  guess  they  are." 

She  paused  a  moment,  looking  into  the  fire.  And  then, 
"Were  you  ever  acquainted  with  any  princes  in  Europe, 
Mr.  Nichols?" 

Peter  smiled.  "Yes,  Beth.  I  did  know  one  prince 
rather  intimately — rather  too  intimately." 

"Oh.     You  didn't  like  him?" 

"No,  not  much.  He  was  an  awful  rotter.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  he  had  good  instincts  and  when  he  went 
wrong,  he  went  wrong  in  spite  of  'em.  You  see — he  was 
temperamental." 

"What's  temperamental?" 

"Having  the  devil  and  God  in  you  both  at  the  same 
time,"  muttered  Peter  after  a  moment. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "Satan  and  God,  with  God  just 
sittin'  back  a  little  to  see  how  far  Satan  will  go." 

He  smiled  at  her.  "You  don't  mean  that  you  have 
temptations  too,  Beth?" 

She  ignored  his  question,  her  face  sober,  and  went  back 
to  her  subject. 

"I  guess  your  prince  wasn't  any  better  or  any  worse 
than  a  lot  of  other  people.  Maybe  he  didn't  give  God  a 
chance?" 

"No.    Maybe  not,"  said  Peter. 

"It  seems  to  me  he  must  have  been  kind  of  human, 
243 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


somehow,"  Beth  commented  reflectively.  "What's  be- 
come of  him  now?"  she  asked,  then. 

"Oh,  he's  out  of  it,"  replied  Peter. 

"Dead?" 

"Yes.  His  country  has  chucked  all  the  nobility  out  on 
the  dust  heap." 

"Russia?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  they  kill  him?" 

"They  tried  to,  but  couldn't.'* 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"A  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"I'm  so  sorry.  It  must  be  terrible  to  have  to  eat  pork 
and  beans  when  your  stomach's  only  used  to  chocolate 
sundaes." 

Peter  grinned. 

"Some  of  'em  were  glad  enough  to  get  off  with  stomachs 
to  put  beans  and  pork  into.  Oh,  you  needn't  waste  your 
pity,  Beth." 

"I  don't.  I  read  the  papers.  I  guess  they  got  what 
they  deserved.  The  workin*  people  in  the  world  ain't 
any  too  keen  on  buyin'  any  more  diamond  tiaras  for 
loafers.  I  reckon  it  was  about  time  for  a  new  deal  all 
around  without  the  face  cards." 

"Perhaps,  Beth.  But  there's  always  the  ten  spot  to 
take  the  deuce." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Beth  reflectively. 
"People  aren't  really  equal — are  they?  Some  apples  are 
better  than  others.  I  guess,"  she  sighed,  "that  the  real 
trouble  with  the  world  is  because  there  ain't  enough  friend- 
ship in  it." 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  he  said,  "not  enough  friendship — 
not  enough  love.  And  it's  all  on  account  of  money,  Beth. 
There  wouldn't  have  been  any  European  war  if  some 


SUPERMAN 


people  hadn't  wanted  property  that  belonged  to  some- 
body else." 

"I  hope  wanting  this  money  won't  make  me  hate  any- 
body or  make  anybody  hate  me.  I  don't  want  to  make 
Mr.  McGuire  unhappy  or  Miss  McGuire " 

"You  needn't  worry,"  said  Peter  dryly.  "You  see,  it's 
your  money." 

Beth  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  would  like  to  have  a  sport  coat  and 
a  cerise  veil  like  Peggy  wears." 

"You  shall  have  'em.    What  else?" 

"Some  pretty  patent  leather  shoes  with  rhinestone 
buckles " 

"Yes " 

"And  a  black  velvet  hat  and  nice  lingerie "     (Beth 

pronounced  it  lingery). 

"Of  course.     And  the  piano " 

Oh,  yes.     A  piano  and  books — lots  of  books." 

"And  a  red  automobile?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  dare  wish  for  that." 

"Why  not?  It's  just  as  easy  to  wish  for  an  auto- 
mobile as  a  piano." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so."  She  became  immediately  grave 
again.  "But  I  can't  seem  to  believe  it  all.  I'm  afraid." 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  Hawk  Kennedy.  I  feel  that  he's  going  to  make 
trouble  for  us  all,  Mr.  Nichols.  I'm  afraid.  I  always 
seem  to  feel  things  before  they  happen.  Any  man  who 
could  do  what  he  did — murder!" 

"There  will  be  some  way  to  get  around  him." 

"But  it's  dangerous.  I  don't  feel  I've  got  the  right 
to  let  you  do  this  for  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,  I'd  do  it  anyhow.  It's  only 
justice." 

"But  suppose  he — suppose " 

245 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"What ?" 

"He  might  kill  you,  too." 

Peter  laughed.  "Not  a  chance.  You  see,  I  wasn't  born 
to  die  a  violent  death.  If  I  had  been,  I'd  have  been  dead 
months  ago." 

"Oh — the  war,  you  mean?"  she  asked  soberly. 

"Yes — the  war.  Everything  is  tame  after  that.  I'm 
not  afraid  of  Hawk  Kennedy." 

"But  there's  danger  just  the  same." 

"I  hope  not.  I  won't  cross  that  bridge  until  I  come 
to  it." 

Beth  was  silent  for  a  long  moment  and  then  with  a 
glance  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel  slowly  gathered  her 
music,  aware  of  his  voice  close  at  her  ear. 

"And  if  I  do  this,  Beth, — if  I  get  what  belongs  to  you, 
will  you  believe  that  I  have  no  motive  but  friendship  for 
you,  that  I  care  for  you  enough  to  want  you  to  forgive 
me  for  what  has  happened?" 

He  had  caught  her  fingers  in  his  own  but  she  did  not 
try  to  release  them. 

"Oh,  don't  speak  of  that — please!  I  want  to  forget 
you — that  day." 

"Can't  you  forget  it  more  easily  by  remembering  me 
as  I  am  now,  Beth?  See.  I  want  you  as  much  now  as  I 
did  then — just  as  much,  but  I  cannot  have  you  until  you 
give  yourself  to  me." 

What  did  he  mean?  She  wasn't  sure  of  him.  If  mar- 
riage was  what  he  meant,  why  didn't  he  say  so?  Mar- 
riage. It  was  such  an  easy  word  to  say.  Her  fingers 
struggled  in  his. 

"Please,  Mr.  Nichols,"  she  gasped. 

"You  mean  that  you  won't — that  you  don't  care 
enough ?" 

"I — I'm  not  sure  of  you " 

"I  love  you,  Beth " 

246 


SUPERMAN 


"You  say  so " 

"I  do — better  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"Enough  to — enough  to  ...   ?" 

She  was  weakening  fast.  She  felt  her  danger  in  the 
trembling  of  her  fingers  in  his.  Why  didn't  he  finish  her 
question  for  her?  Marriage.  It  was  such  a  little  word. 
And  yet  he  evaded  it  and  she  saw  that  he  meant  to  evade 
it. 

"Enough  to  have  you  almost  in  my  arms  and  yet  hardly 
to  touch  you — enough  to  have  your  lips  within  reach  of 
mine  and  yet  not  to  take  them.  Isn't  that  what  you 
wanted,  Beth?  Gentleness,  tenderness " 

She  flung  away  from  him  desperately. 

"No — no.  I  want  nothing — nothing.  Please!  You 
don't  want  to  understand."  And  then  with  an  effort  she 
found  her  poise.  "Things  must  be  as  they  are.  Nothing 
else.  It's  getting  late,  I  must  go." 

"Beth — Not  yet.     Just  a  minute " 

"No." 

But  she  did  not  go  and  only  stood  still,  trembling  with 
irresolution.  He  knew  what  she  wanted  him  to  say.  There 
could  be  no  middle  ground  for  Beth.  She  must  be  all  to 
him  or  nothing.  Marriage.  It  was  the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch  who  had  evaded  this  very  moment  while 
Peter  Nichols  had  urged  him  to  it.  And  it  was  Peter 
Nichols  who  knew  that  any  words  spoken  of  marriage  to 
Beth  Cameron  would  be  irrevocable,  the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
(an  opportunist)  who  urged  him  to  utter  them,  careless 
of  consequences.  And  there  stood  Beth  adorable  in  her 
perplexity,  conjuring  both  of  him  to  speak. 

It  was  Peter  Nichols  who  met  the  challenge,  oblivious 
of  all  counsels  of  pride,  culture,  vainglory  and  hypocrisy. 
This  was  his  mate,  a  sweeter  lady  than  any  he  had  ever 
known. 

"Beth,"  he  whispered.  "I  love  you.  Nothing  in  the 
247 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


world  makes  any  difference  to  me  but  your  happiness." 

He  came  to  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  while  she 
still  struggled  away  from  him.  "I  want  you.  It  doesn't 
matter  who  I  am  or  who  you  are.  I  want  you  to " 

Beth  suddenly  sprung  away  from  him,  staring  at  a 
figure  which  stood  in  the  doorway  as  a  strident,  highly 
pitched  voice  cut  in  sharply  on  Peter's  confession. 

"Oh,  excuse  me!     I  didn't  mean  to  intrude." 

It  was  Miss  Peggy  McGuire  in  her  cerise  veil  and  her 
sport  suit,  with  hard  eyes  somewhat  scandalized  by  what 
she  had  seen,  for  Peter  was  standing  awkwardly,  his 
arms  empty  of  their  prize,  who  had  started  back  in  dis- 
may and  now  stood  with  difficulty  recovering  her  self- 
possession.  As  neither  of  them  spoke  Miss  McGuire  went 
on  cuttingly,  as  she  glanced  curiously  around  the  Cabin. 

"So  this  is  where  you  live?  I  seem  to  have  spoiled  your 

party.  And  may  I  ask  who "  and  her  eyes  traveled 

scornfully  over  Beth's  figure,  beginning  at  her  shoes  and 
ending  at  her  flushed  face — "I  think  I've  seen  you  be- 
fore  » 

"Miss  McGuire,"  said  Peter  quietly,  "This  is  Miss 
Cameron " 

"Oh,  yes — the  kitchen  maid." 

"Miss  Beth  Cameron,"  insisted  Peter  frigidly,  "who  has 
just  done  me  the  honor  of  promising  to  many  me." 

"Oh !    I  see " 

Beth  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  aware  of  the  mean- 
ing of  the  visitor's  manner  and  of  Peter's  reply. 

"That  is  not  true,"  she  said  very  quietly,  her  deep 
voice  vibrant  with  emotion.  "I  come  here  often.  Mr. 
Nichols  is  teaching  me  music.  I  am  very  proud  of  his 
friendship.  But  I  did  not  promise  to  marry  him." 

Peggy  McGuire  turned  on  her  heel. 

"Well,  it's  almost  time  you  did,"  she  said  insultingly. 

Peter,  now  pale  and  cold  with  fury,  reached  the  door 
248 


SUPERMAN 


before  her  and  stood  blocking  the  passageway.  "Miss 
McGuire,  I'll  trouble  you  to  be  more  careful  in  addressing 
my  guests,"  he  said  icily. 

"Let  me  pass " 

"In  a  moment." 

"You'd  dare ?" 

"I  would  like  you  to  understand  that  this  cabin  is  mine 
— while  I  am  in  Black  Rock.  Any  guest  here  comes  at 
my  invitation  and  honors  me  by  accepting  my  hospitality. 
But  I  reserve  the  privilege  of  saying  who  shall  come  and 

who  shall  not.  I  hope  I  make  myself  clear "  And 

Peter  bowed  low  and  then  moved  aside,  indicating  the 
door.  "Good-night,"  he  finished. 

Miss  Peggy  McGuire  glared  at  him,  red  as  a  young 
turkey  cock,  her  finishing  school  training  just  saving  her 

from  a  tirade.  "Oh,  you !  We'll  see  about  this "  and 

dashed  past  him  out  of  the  door  and  disappeared  into  the 
darkness. 

Peter  followed  her  with  his  angry  gaze,  struggling  for 
his  self-control,  and  at  last  turned  into  the  room  toward 
Beth,  who  now  stood  a  smiling  image  turned  into  stone. 

"Why  did  you  deny  what  I  said,  Beth?"  he  pleaded. 

"It  wasn't  the  truth.  I  never  promised  to  marry  you. 
You  never  asked  me  to." 

"I  would  have  asked  you.  I  ask  you  now.  I  was  ask- 
ing you  when  that  little  fool  came  in " 

"Maybe  you  were.  Maybe  you  weren't.  Maybe  I'm 
a  little  hard  of  hearin'.  But  I'm  not  goin'  to  make  that 
an  excuse  for  my  bein'  here " 

"I  don't  understand " 

"It's  just  that  I  came  here  because  I  wanted  to  come 
and  because  you  wanted  me.  People  have  been  talkin'. 
Let  them  talk.  Let  her  talk " 

"She  will.     You  can  be  pretty  sure  of  that." 

Peter  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  his  hands 
249 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


behind  him.     "If  she'd  been  a  man "  he  was  mutter- 
ing.    "If  she'd  only  been  a  man." 

Beth  watched  him  a  moment,  still  smiling. 

"Oh,  I  got  what  she  meant — she  was  just  try  in'  to  in- 
sult me." 

She  laughed.  "Seems  as  if  she'd  kind  of  succeeded.  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  scratched  her  face  for  her.  I 
think  I  would  have — if  she'd  just  stayed  a  minute  longer. 
Funny  too,  because  I  always  used  to  think  she  was  so 
sweet." 

Peter  threw  his  arms  wildly  into  the  air  and  exploded. 

"Sweet!  Sweet!  That  girl!  Yes,  if  vinegar  is.  She'll 
tear  your  reputation  to  shreds." 

Beth  had  stopped  smiling  now  and  leaned  against  the 
wall,  her  chin  lowered. 

"I  reckon  it  serves  me  right.  I  hadn't  any  business 
to  be  comin*  here — not  at  night,  anyway." 

"Oh,  Beth,"  he  pleaded,  catching  her  hands.  "Why 
couldn't  you  have  let  things  be?" 

She  struggled  a  little.  And  then,  "Let  her  think  I  was 
engaged  to  you  when  I  wasn't?"  she  gasped. 

"But  we  are,  Beth,  dear.     Say  we  are,  won't  you?" 

"Not  when  we're  not." 

«Beth !" 

"You  should  have  spoken  sooner,  if  you'd  really  meant 
it.  Oh,  I  know  what  it  is.  I've  always  known  there's  a 
difference  between  us." 

"No — not  unless  you  make  it." 

"Yes.  It  was  there  before  I  was  born.  You  were 
brought  up  in  a  different  kind  of  life  in  a  different  way 
of  thinkin'  from  mine " 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.     It's  not  my  fault.     And  maybe  I'm  a 

little  too  proud.    But  I'm  straight " 

250 


SUPERMAN 


"Don't,  Beth "  He  put  Tiis  arm  around  her  but 

she  disengaged  herself  gently. 

"No,  let  me  finish.  Maybe  you  wanted  me.  I  guess  you 
did.  But  not  that  much — not  enough  to  speak'out — and 
you  were  too  straight  to  lie  to  me.  I'm  thankful  for 
that " 

"But  I  have  spoken,  Beth,"  he  insisted,  taking  her  by 
the  elbows  and  holding  her  so  that  he  could  look  into  her 
eyes.  "I've  asked  you  to — to  be  my  wife.  I  ask  you 
now.  Is  that  clear?" 

Her  eyes  evaded  him  and  she  laughed  uneasily. 

"Yes,  it's  clear — and — and  your  reason  for  it " 

"I  love  you " 

"A  little,  maybe.  But  I'll  marry  no  man  just  to  save 
my  face — and  his." 

But  he  caught  her  close  to  him,  finding  a  new  joy  in 
his  momentous  decision.  She  struggled  still,  but  he  would 
not  be  denied. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  he  whispered.  "You've  got  to  marry 
me  whether  you  want  to  or  not.  You're  compromised." 

"I  don't  care." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  And  you  love  me,  Beth." 

"I  don't  love  you " 

"You  do.  And  I'm  going  to  marry  you  whether  you 
want  it  or  not." 

"Oh,  are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Soon." 

He  kissed  her.  She  didn't  resist  him.  Resistance  was 
useless.  He  had  won. 

"Beth,  dear,"  he  went  on.  "I  couldn't  lie  to  you.  I'm 
glad  you  knew  that.  And  I  couldn't  hurt  you.  I  think 
I've  always  loved  you — from  the  first." 

"I  too— I  too,"  she  whispered.  "I  couldn't  help  it." 
251 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  think  I  knew  that  too " 

"No,  no.     You  couldn't " 

"Yes.  It  was  meant  to  be.  You've  given  a  new  mean- 
ing to  life,  torn  from  its  very  roots  a  whole  rotten  philos- 
ophy. Oh,  you  don't  know  what  I  mean — except  that 
nobility  is  in  the  mind,  beauty  in  the  heart.  Nothing  else 
matters." 

"No.  It  doesn't,"  she  sighed.  "You  see,  I— I  do  believe 
in  you." 

"Thank  God!  But  you  know  nothing  of  me — nothing 
of  my  past " 

"I  don't  care  what  your  past  has  been  or  who  you  are. 
You're  good  enough  for  me.  I'm  satisfied " 

He  laughed  joyously  at  the  terms  of  her  acquiescence. 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  what  I've  been — who  I 
am ?" 

"No.     It  wouldn't  make  any  difference — not  now." 

"I'll  tell  you  some  day." 

"I'll  take  a  chance  on  that.    I'm  not  afraid." 

"And  whatever  I  am — you'll  marry  me?" 

"Yes.    Whatever— you— are " 

While  he  smiled  down  at  her  she  straightened  in  his 
arms  and  gently  released  herself,  glancing  guiltily  at  the 
clock. 

"I — I  must  be  going  now,"  she  whispered. 

And  so  through  the  quiet  forest  they  went  to  Black 
Rock  village,  hand  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IDENTIFICATION 

THE  sudden  and  unexpected  arrival  of  Miss  Peggy 
McGuire  upon  the  scene  had  been  annoying.  That 
young  person  was,  as  Peter  knew,  a  soulless  little 
snob  and  materialist  with  a  mind  which  would  not  be  slow 
to  put  the  worst  possible  construction  upon  the  situation. 
Of  course  as  matters  stood  at  the  close  of  that  extraordi- 
nary evening  of  self-revelations,  it  did  not  matter  a  great 
deal  what  Peggy  McGuire  thought  or  said  or  did,  for 
nothing  could  hurt  Beth  now.  The  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch  had  capitulated  and  Peter  Nichols  gloried 
in  his  victory  over  inherited  tradition.  He  had  no  regrets 
and  he  had  made  his  choice,  for  Beth  was  what  he  wanted. 
She  completed  him.  She  was  effulgent, — even  in  home- 
spun. A  little  tinsel  more  or  less  could  make  no  difference 
in  Beth.  Those  of  his  own  class  who  would  not  accept 
her  might  go  hang  for  all  he  cared. 

Still  Peter  had  rather  that  almost  any  one  but  Peggy 
should  have  come  upon  the  scene,  and  Beth's  frankness 
had  given  her  a  handle  for  a  scandal,  if  she  chose  to  make 
one.  Beth  cared  nothing,  he  knew,  for  her  soul  was 
greater  than  his,  but  Peter's  anger  still  smoldered  at  the 
words  that  had  been  used  to  Beth. 

He  did  not  fear  complications  with  McGuire,  nor  did 
he  court  them,  but  he  knew  how  this  daughter  had  been 
brought  up,  spoiled  and  pampered  to  the  very  limits  of 
McGuire's  indulgence  and  fortune,  and  he  couldn't  help 
holding  her  up  in  comparison  with  Beth,  much  to  Peggy's 
253 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


detriment.  For  Beth  was  a  lady  to  her  finger  tips,  born 
to  a  natural  gentility  that  put  to  confusion  the  manner- 
isms of  the  "smart"  finishing  school  which  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  concealing  the  strain  of  a  plebeian  origin,  and 
Beth's  dropped  g's  and  her  quaint  inversions  and  locu- 
tions were  infinitely  more  pleasing  to  Peter  than  Miss 
Peggy's  slang  and  self-assurance,  which  reflected  the  mo- 
dernity of  the  fashionable  hotel  tea-room. 

Fortunately,  Jonathan  K.  McGuire,  who  had  returned 
from  the  seashore  the  night  before,  was  not  disposed  to 
take  his  daughter's  animadversions  too  seriously  and  when 
Peter  announced  his  engagement  to  the  niece  of  his  house- 
keeper he  made  no  comment  further  than  to  offer  his  con- 
gratulations. He  did  not  even  know  her  name  and  when 
McGuire  was  told  that  it  was  Beth  Cameron,  Peter  did 
not  miss  his  slight  start  of  inquiry.  But  of  course,  hav- 
ing only  owned  his  acres  of  woodland  for  half  a  dozen 
years,  he  knew  little  as  to  the  origins  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Black  Rock  and  as  Peter  said  nothing  at  that  moment 
he  asked  no  questions  and  only  listened  to  the  forester's 
account  of  the  progress  of  the  work  and  of  the  difficulties 
experienced  in  attempting  to  complete  the  timber-con- 
tract. There  was  no  way  of  improving  the  labor  situa- 
tion and  a  visit  to  the  camp  proved  to  him  that  Peter  had 
done  all  that  could  be  expected  with  the  poor  material  at 
hand.  On  the  way  back  they  stopped  at  the  Cabin  and 
Peter  showed  him  the  letter  from  Hawk  Kennedy.  And 
there  for  a  while  they  sat  discussing  plans  to  outwit  the 
enemy  and  draw  his  sting. 

It  was  going  to  be  no  easy  task  and  could  only  be 
accomplished  by  Peter's  apparent  compliance  with  Ken- 
nedy's wishes  in  throwing  in  his  lot  with  Hawk  and  simu- 
lating an  enmity  for  his  employer.  McGuire  nodded  his 
head  and  listened  soberly.  The  rest  at  the  seashore  had 
done  him  good  and  he  was  disposed  to  meet  the  situation 
254 


IDENTIFICATION 


with  courage,  reflecting  Peter's  own  attitude  of  confidence 
and  optimism,  admitting  that  his  confession  to  Peter  had 
lifted  a  weight  from  his  shoulders  and  given  him  the  spirit 
to  meet  the  issue,  whatever  it  might  be. 

"You  see,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  the  worst  comes  I'm  in 
a  pretty  bad  hole.  But  it  was  the  shock  of  meeting  Hawk 
after  all  these  years  that  took  the  courage  out  of  me  at 
first.  I  wasn't  quite  right  in  my  head  for  a  while.  I'd 
have  killed  him  gladly  and  gotten  away  with  it  perhaps — 
but  I'm  glad  now  that  things  turned  out  the  way  they 
did.  I've  got  no  blood  on  my  hands — that's  one  thing — 
whatever  I  signed.  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  since 
I've  been  away.  If  I  signed  that  fake  confession  Hawk 
Kennedy  signed  it  too.  He  won't  dare  to  produce  it  ex- 
cept as  a  last  resort  in  desperation,  to  drag  me  down  with 
him  if  he  fails.  We  can  string  him  along  for  a  while 
before  he  does  that  and  if  he  falls  for  your  game  we  may 
be  able  to  get  the  paper  away  from  him.  You've  thought 
of  something,  Nichols?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  of  several  tilings,"  said  Peter  slowly.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  try  diplomacy  first.  If  that  doesn't  work,  then 
something  else  more  drastic." 

McGuire  rose  at  last  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for  what  you've  done, 
Nichols,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "Of  course  if — if  money 
will  repay  you  for  this  sort  of  service,  you  can  count  on 
my  doing  what  you  think  is  right." 

Peter  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  looking  out. 

"I  was  coming  to  that,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said  gravely. 

McGuire  paused  and  laid  his  hat  down  again. 

"Before  you  went  away,"  Peter  went  on,  turning  slowly 

toward  his  employer,  "you  told  me  that  you  had  never 

made  any  effort  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  any  of 

the  relatives  of  Ben  Cameron.    But  I  inferred  from  what 

255 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


you  said  that  if  you  did  find  them,  you'd  be  willing  to  do 
your  duty.  That's  true,  isn't  it?" 

McGuire  examined  him  soberly  but  agreed. 

"Yes,  that's  true.  But  why  do  you  bring  this  question 
up  now?" 

"I'll  explain  in  a  moment.  Mr.  McGuire,  you  are  said 
to  be  a  very  rich  man,  how  rich  I  don't  know,  but  I  think 
you'll  be  willing  to  admit  to  me,  knowing  what  I  do  of 
your  history,  that  without  the  'Tarantula'  mine  and  the 
large  sum  it  brought  you  you  would  never  have  succeeded 
in  getting  to  your  present  position  in  the  world  of 
finance." 

"I'll  admit  that.     But  I  don't  see " 

"You  will  in  a  minute,  sir " 

"Go  on." 

"If  I  have  been  correctly  informed,  you  sold  out  your 
copper  holdings  in  Madre  Gulch  for  something  like  half 
a  million  dollars "  Peter  paused  for  McGuire's  com- 
ment. He  made  none.  But  he  had  sunk  into  his  chair 
again  and  was  listening  intently. 

"The  interest  on  half  a  million  dollars,  even  at  six 
per  cent,  if  compounded,  would  in  fifteen  years  amount 
with  the  principal  to  a  considerable  sum." 

"Ah,  I  see  what  you're  getting  at " 

"You  will  admit  that  what  I  say  is  true?" 

«Yes " 

"You'll  admit  also,  if  you're  reasonable,  that  the  money 
which  founded  your  great  fortune  was  as  a  matter  of 
fact  not  yours  but  Ben  Cameron's ?" 

"But  why  speak  of  him  now?"  muttered  the  old  man. 

"Do  you  admit  this?" 

McGuire  frowned  and  then  growled,  "How  can  I  help 

admitting  it,  since  you  know  the  facts?  But  I  don't 
gee » 

"Well  then,  admitting  that  the  'Tarantula'  mine  was 
256 


IDENTIFICA  TION 


Ben  Cameron's  and  not  yours  or  Hawk  Kennedy's,  it 
seems  clear  that  if  any  of  Ben  Cameron's  heirs  should 
turn  up  unexpectedly,  they  might  claim  at  least  a  share 
of  what  should  have  been  their  own." 

McGuire  had  started  forward  in  his  chair,  his  gaze 
on  Peter's  face,  as  the  truth  was  suddenly  borne  in  upon 
him. 

"You  mean,  Nichols,  that ."  He  paused  and  gasped 

as  Peter  nodded. 

"I  mean  that  Ben  Cameron's  only  child,  a  daughter, 
lives  here  at  Black  Rock — the  niece  of  your  housekeeper 
— Mrs.  Bergen " 

"Miss  Cameron — My  God!"  McGuire  fell  back  in  his 
chair,  staring  at  Peter,  incapable  of  further  speech. 

"Beth  Cameron,"  said  Peter  gently,  "the  lady  who  has 
done  me  the  honor  of  promising  to  become  my  wife " 

"But  how  do  you  know?"  gasped  McGuire.  "There 

must  be  some  mistake.  Are  you  sure  you "  He  broke 

off  and  then  a  sly  smile  curled  at  the  corners  of  his  lips. 
"You  know,  Nichols,  Cameron  is  not  an  unusual  name. 
It's  quite  possible  that  you're — er — mistaken." 

"No.  I'm  quitt  sure  there's  no  mistake.  I  think  the 
facts  can  be  proved — that  is,  of  course,  if  you're  willing 
to  help  to  establish  this  claim  and  to  admit  it  when  estab- 
lished. Otherwise  I  intend  to  establish  it  without  your  as- 
sistance— as  an  act  of  justice  and  of — er — retribution." 

McGuire  watched  his  superintendent's  face  for  a  while 
before  replying.  And  then,  briefly,  "What  are  the  facts 
on  which  you  base  this  extraordinary  statement?"  he 
asked. 

"I'll  present  those  facts  when  the  time  comes,  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire," said  Peter  at  a  venture.  "I  don't  think  it  will 
be  a  difficult  matter  to  identify  the  murdered  man.  He 
wrote  home  once  or  twice.  He  can  be  traced  successfully. 
But  what  I  would  like  to  know  first  is  what  your  dis- 
257 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


position  toward  his  daughter  will  be  when  the  proper 
proofs  are  presented." 

"//  they're  presented,"  said  McGuire. 

"Will  you  answer  me?" 

"It  would  seem  time  enough  to  answer  then.  I'll  do  the 
right  thing." 

"Meaning  what?" 

"Money  enough  to  satisfy  her." 

"That  won't  do.  She  must  have  what  is  hers  by  right. 
Her  price  is  one  million  dollars,"  said  Peter  quietly. 

McGuire  started  up.     "You're  dreaming,"  he  gasped. 

"It's  her  money." 

"But  I  developed  that  mine." 

"It  was  her  mine  that  you  developed." 

McGuire  stopped  by  the  window  and  turned. 

"And  if  I  refuse ?" 

"I  don't  think  you  will " 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other,  but  Peter  had  the 
whip  hand — or  McGuire  thought  he  had,  which  was  quite 
sufficient. 

"Will  you  help  me  to  perform  this  act  of  justice?" 
Peter  went  on  calmly.  "It's  the  only  thing  to  do,  Mr. 
McGuire.  Can't  you  see  that?" 

McGuire  paced  the  floor  heavily  a  few  times  before 
replying.  And  then, 

"I've  got  to  think  this  thing  over,  Nichols.  It's  all  so 
very  sudden — a  million  dollars.  My  God!  man,  you  talk 
of  a  million  as  if  it  grew  on  the  trees."  He  stopped 
abruptly  before  the  fireplace  and  turned  to  Peter.  "And 
where  does  Hawk  Kennedy  come  in  on  this?" 

"Beth  Cameron's  claim  comes  before  his — or  yours," 
said  Peter  quietly.  "Whatever  happens  to  either  of  you 
— it's  not  her  fault." 

Peter  hadn't  intended  a  threat.  He  was  simply  stat- 
ing the  principal  thought  of  his  mind.  But  it  broke 
258 


IDENTIFICATION 


McGuire's  front.  He  leaned  upon  the  armchair  and  then 
fell  heavily  into  it,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

"I'll  do — whatever  you  say,"  he  groaned  at  last,  "but 
you've  got  to  get  me  out  of  this,  Nichols.  I've  got  to 
have  that  paper." 

Peter  poured  out  a  drink  of  the  whisky  and  silently 
handed  it  to  his  employer. 

"Come,  Mr.  McGuire,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "we'll  do 
what  we  can.  There'll  be  a  way  to  outwit  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy." 

"I  hope  to  God  there  is,"  muttered  McGuire  helplessly. 

"I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you." 

"What?"  asked  McGuire  helplessly. 

"If  I  get  the  confession  from  Kennedy,  you  give  Beth 
Cameron  the  money  I  ask  for." 

"No  publicity?" 

"None.    I  give  you  my  word  on  it." 

"Well,"  muttered  the  old  man,  "I  guess  it's  coming  to 
her.  I'll  see."  He  paused  helplessly.  "A  million  dollars ! 
That's  a  big  sum  to  get  together.  A  big  price — but  not 
too  big  to  clear  this  load  off  my  conscience." 

"Good.    I'm  glad  you  see  it  in  this  way." 

The  old  man  turned  shrewdly.  "But  I've  got  to  have 
the  proofs " 

"Very  well.  If  you're  honest  in  your  intentions  you'll 
help  me  confirm  the  evidence." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  slowly.    "I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"Then  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  telling  me  what  Ben 
Cameron  looked  like " 

"I've  told  you  as  near  as  I  can  remember,"  muttered 
McGuire. 

"Had  the  murdered  man,  for  instance,  lost  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand?"  asked  Peter,  coolly  concealing 
the  anxiety  which  lay  behind  his  question. 

But  he  had  his  reward,  for  McGuire  shot  a  quick  glance 
259 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


at  him,  his  heavy  jowl  sagging.  And  as  he  didn't  reply, 
Peter  urged  him  triumphantly. 

"You  promised  to  help.  Will  you  answer  me  truth- 
fully? It  will  save  asking  a  lot  of  questions." 

At  last  McGuire  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "that  was  Ben  Cameron.  One  of 
his  little  fingers  was  missing  all  right  enough." 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter,  with  an  air  of  closing  the  inter- 
view. "If  you  want  this  proof  that  the  murdered  man 
was  Beth's  father,  ask  Mrs.  Bergen." 

There  was  a  silence.  Peter  had  won.  McGuire  gath- 
ered up  his  hat  with  the  mien  of  a  broken  man  and  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"All  right,  Nichols.  I  guess  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  I'll 
admit  the  proof's  strong  enough.  It  can  be  further  veri- 
fied, I  suppose,  but  I'd  rather  no  questions  were  asked. 
You  do  your  part  and  I — I'll  do  mine." 

"Very  good,  sir.  You  can  count  on  me.  If  that  fake 
agreement  is  still  in  existence,  I'll  get  it  for  you.  If  it 
has  been  destroyed " 

"I'll  have  to  have  proof  of  that " 

"Won't  you  leave  that  in  my  hands?" 

McGuire  nodded,  shook  Peter's  hand  and  wandered  out 
up  the  path  in  the  direction  of  Black  Rock  House. 

From  the  first,  Peter  had  had  no  doubt  that  the  mur- 
dered man  was  Beth's  father,  but  he  had  to  admit  under 
McGuire's  questioning  that  there  might  still  be  a  diffi- 
culty in  tracing  the  vagrant  from  the  meager  history  of 
his  peregrinations  that  Mrs.  Bergen  had  been  able  to  pro- 
vide. McGuire's  attitude  in  regard  to  the  absent  little 
finger  had  been  really  admirable.  Peter  was  thankful  for 
that  little  finger,  and  for  McGuire's  honesty.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  his  mind  now — if  any  had  existed — who  Ben 
Cameron's  murderer  was.  The  affair  was  simplified  amaz- 
ingly. With  Beth's  claim  recognized,  Peter  could  now 
260 


IDENTIFICATION 


enter  heart  and  soul  into  the  interesting  business  of  beat- 
ing Hawk  Kennedy  at  his  own  game.  He  would  win — he 
must  win,  for  the  pitiful  millionaire  and  for  Beth. 

And  so,  jubilantly,  he  made  his  way  to  Black  Rock 
village  to  fill  a  very  agreeable  engagement  that  he  had, 
to  take  supper  (cooked  and  served  by  her  own  hands) 
with  Miss  Beth  Cameron.  He  found  that  Beth  had  tried 
to  prevail  upon  Aunt  Tillie  to  be  present  but  that  the 
arrival  of  the  McGuire  family  at  Black  Rock  House  had 
definitely  prevented  the  appearance  of  their  chaperon. 
Peter's  appetite,  however,  suffered  little  diminution  upon 
that  account  and  he  learned  that  singing  was  not  Beth's 
only  accomplishment.  The  rolls,  as  light  as  feathers  and 
steaming  hot,  were  eloquent  of  her  skill,  the  chicken  was 
broiled  to  a  turn,  the  creamed  potatoes  delicious,  and  the 
apple  pie  of  puff-paste  provoked  memories  of  the  Paris 
Ritz.  Aunt  Tillie's  best  tablecloth  and  family  silver — old, 
by  the  looks  of  it — had  been  brought  into  requisition  and 
a  bunch  of  goldenrod  and  purple  asters  graced  the  cen- 
terpiece. And  above  it  all  presided  Beth,  her  face  aflame 
from  the  cookstove,  gracious  and  more  than  lovable  in  her 
pride  and  self-consciousness. 

When  the  supper  was  finished,  Peter  helped  her  to  clear 
away  the  things  and  insisted  on  being  allowed  to  help 
wash  the  dishes.  But  to  this  Beth  demurred  for  they  were 
of  Aunt  Tillie's  blue  colonial  china  set  and  not  to  be 
trusted  to  impious  hands.  But  she  let  Peter  sit  in  the 
kitchen  and  watch  her  (which  was  quite  satisfactory)  and 
even  spared  him  a  kiss  or  two  at  propitious  intervals. 

Then  when  all  things  had  been  set  to  rights  they  went 
into  the  little  parlor  and  sat  on  the  worn  Victorian  plush- 
covered  sofa.  There  was  much  to  talk  about,  matters  of 
grave  importance  that  concerned  themselves  alone,  ex- 
planations to  be  made,  hopes  to  be  expressed,  and  Beth's 
affair  with  McGuire  to  be  discussed  in  all  its  phases. 
261 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Peter  told  her  nothing  of  his  rank  or  station  in  life,  sav- 
ing that  revelation  for  a  later  moment.  Was  not  the  pres- 
ent all-sufficient?  And  hadn't  Beth  told  him  and  didn't 
she  tell  him  again  now  that  she  believed  in  him  and  that 
"no  matter  what"  she  loved  him  and  was  his,  for  ever 
after,  Amen.  She  didn't  care  who  he  was,  you  see. 

And  when  the  important  business  of  affirming  those 
vows  was  concluded  again  and  again,  the  scarcely  less  im- 
portant business  of  Beth's  future  was  talked  over  with  a 
calmness  which  did  much  credit  to  Beth's  control  of  the 
situation.  Peter  brought  out  Hawk  Kennedy's  letter  and 
they  read  it  together,  and  talked  about  it,  Peter  explain- 
ing his  intention  to  acquiesce  in  Hawk's  plan.  Then  Peter 
told  of  his  conversation  with  McGuire  and  of  the  proof 
of  Ben  Cameron's  identity  which  the  old  man  had  honestly 
admitted. 

"It  looks  very  much,  Beth,"  said  Peter  at  last,  with 
a  smile,  "as  though  you  were  going  to  be  a  very  wealthy 
young  woman." 

"Oh,  Peter,"  she  sighed  (the  elimination  of  formal  ap- 
pellations had  been  accomplished  during  the  earlier  stages 
of  the  repast),  "Oh,  Peter,  I  hope  it  isn't  going  to  bring 
us  unhappiness." 

"Unhappiness!    Why,  Beth!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  people  with  a 
lot  of  money  always  look  unhappy  wantin'  to  want  some- 
thin'." 

He  laughed. 

"The  secret  of  successful  wanting  is  only  to  want  the 
things  you  can  get." 

"That's  just  the  trouble.  With  a  million  dollars  I'll 
get  so  much  more  than  I  want.  And  what  then ?" 

"You'll  have  to  start  all  over  again." 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  won't.  If  wantin'  things 
262 


IDENTIFICATION 


she  can't  buy  makes  a  girl  hard,  like  Peggy  McGuire,  I 
think  I'd  rather  be  poor." 

Peter  grew  grave  again. 

"Nothing  could  ever  make  you  like  Peggy  McGuire," 
he  said. 

"I  might  be — if  I  ever  get  into  the  habit  of  thinkin' 
I  was  somethin'  that  I  wasn't." 

"You'll  never  be  a  snob,  Beth,  no  matter  how  much 
money  you  have." 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said  with  a  laugh.  "My  nose  turns 
up  enough  already."  And  then,  wistfully,  "But  I  always 
did  want  a  cerise  veil." 

"I've  no  doubt  you'll  get  it,  a  cerise  veil — mauve,  green 
and  blue  ones  too.  I'll  be  having  to  keep  an  eye  on  you 
when  you  go  to  the  city." 

She  eyed  him  gravely  and  then,  "I  don't  like  to  hear 
you  talk  like  that." 

But  he  kept  to  his  topic  for  the  mere  delight  of  hear- 
ing her  replies. 

"But  then  you  might  see  somebody  you  liked  better 
than  me." 

She  smiled  at  him  gently.  "If  I'd  'a'  thought  that  I 
wouldn't  'a'  picked  you  out  in  the  first  place." 

"Then  you  did  pick  me  out.     When?" 

"H-m.    Wouldn't  you  like  to  know !" 

"Yes.    At  the  Cabin?" 

«No " 

"At  McGuire's ?" 

"No-o.     Before  that -" 

"When " 

She  blushed  very  prettily  and  laughed. 

"Down  Pickerel  River  road." 

"Did  you,  Beth?" 

"Yes.  I  liked  your  looks.  You  do  smile  like  you 
meant  it,  Peter.  I  said  to  myself  that  anybody  that  could 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


bow  from  the  middle  like  you  was  good  enough  for  me.'* 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me." 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  not.  You  see,  dear,  you've  really  lived 
up  to  that  bow!" 

"I  hope,"  said  Peter  gently,  "I  hope  I  always  will." 

"I'm  not  worryin'.  And  I'm  glad  I  knew  you  loved  me 
before  you  knew  about  the  money." 

"You  did  know,  then " 

"Yes.  What  bothered  me  was  your  findin'  it  so  hard 
to  tell  me  so;" 

Peter  was  more  awkward  and  self-conscious  at  that 
moment  than  he  could  ever  remember  having  been  in  his 
life.  Her  frankness  shamed  him — made  it  seem  difficult 
for  him  ever  to  tell  her  the  real  reasons  for  his  hesitation. 
What  chance  would  the  exercise  of  inherited  tradition 
have  in  the  judgment  of  this  girl  who  dealt  instinctively 
and  intimately  with  the  qualities  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
and  only  with  them? 

"I — I  was  not  good  enough  for  you,"  he  muttered. 

She  put  her  fingers  over  his  lips.  And  when  he  kissed 
them — took  them  away  and  gave  him  her  lips. 

"I'll  hear  no  more  of  that,  Peter  Nichols,"  she  whis- 
pered. "You're  good  enough  for  me " 

Altogether,  it  may  be  said  that  the  evening  was  a  suc- 
cess at  every  angle  from  which  Peter  chose  to  view  it. 
And  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  Cabin  through  the  deep 
forest  along  the  path  that  Beth  had  worn,  the  path  to 
his  heart  past  all  the  fictitious  barriers  that  custom  had 
built  about  him.  The  meddlesome  world  was  not.  Here 
was  the  novaya  jezn  that  his  people  had  craved  and 
shouted  for.  He  had  found  it.  New  life — happiness — 
with  a  mate  .  .  .  his  woman — soon  to  be  his  wife — 
whether  Beth  Nichols  or  the  Grand  Duchess  Elizabeth 
.  .  .?  There  was  no  title  of  nobility  that  could  make 
Beth's  heart  more  noble,  no  pride  of  lineage  that  could 
264 


IDENTIFIOA  TION 


give  her  a  higher  place  than  that  which  she  already  held 
in  his  heart. 

His  blood  surging,  he  ran  along  the  log  at  the  cross- 
ing and  up  the  path  to  the  Cabin,  where  a  surprise 
awaited  him.  For  he  found  the  lamp  lighted,  and,  seated 
complacently  in  Peter's  easy  chair,  stockinged  feet  toward 
the  blaze  of  a  fresh  log,  a  bottle  at  his  elbow,  was  Hawk 
Kennedy. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PETER  BECOMES  A  CONSPIRATOR 

PETER  entered  and  stood  by  the  door,  startled  from 
his  rhapsody  by  the  appearance  of  the  intruder, 
who  had  made  himself  quite  at  home,  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  the  final  words  of  their  last  meeting  had 
given  no  promise  of  a  friendship  which  would  make  his 
air  of  easy  familiarity  acceptable  to  Peter,  whose  first 
impulse  moved  him  to  anger,  fortunately  controlled  as  he 
quickly  remembered  how  much  hung  upon  the  assumption 
of  an  amicable  relationship  with  McGuire's  arch  enemy. 
Peter  hadn't  replied  to  Hawk's  letter  which  had  indicated 
that  some  weeks  might  elapse  before  Black  Rock  received 
another  of  his  visitations.  The  speculations  in  Peter's 
mind  as  to  the  change  in  his  visitor's  plans  and  the  pos- 
sible causes  for  them  may  have  been  marked  in  his  face, 
for  Hawk  grinned  at  him  amiably  and  rose  and  offered 
his  hand  with  an  air  of  assurance. 

"Wondering  why  I  dropped  in  on  you  so  unexpected- 
like?  Let's  say  that  I  got  tired  of  staring  at  the  lonely 
grandeur  of  Pike's  Peak,  mon  gars,  or  that  the  lady  who 
gave  me  the  pleasure  of  her  society  skipped  for  Denver 
with  a  younger  man,  or  that  the  high  altitude  played 
Billy-be-damned  with  my  nerves,  and  you'll  have  excuse 
enough.  But  the  fact  is,  Pete,  I  was  a  bit  nervous  at  be- 
ing so  long  away  from  the  center  of  financial  operations, 
and  thought  I'd  better  come  right  on  and  talk  to  you." 

"I  got  your  letter,"  said  Peter  calmly,  "I  hadn't  an- 
swered it  yet " 

266 


PETER— A  CONSPIRATOR 

"I  thought  it  better  to  come  for  my  answer." 

"I've  been  thinking  it  over " 

"Good.  It  will  be  worth  thinkin'  over.  You'll  bless 
the  day  Jim  Coast  ran  athwart  your  course." 

"You  seem  to  be  taking  a  good  deal  for  granted." 

"I  do.  I  always  do.  Until  the  present  opportunity  it 
was  about  the  only  thing  I  got  a  chance  to  take.  You 
wouldn't  of  done  me  a  good  turn  that  night,  if  you  hadn't 
been  O.K.  Will  you  have  a  drink  of  your  own?  It's  good 
stuff — ten  years  in  the  wood,  I  see  by  the  label,  and  I'm 
glad  to  get  it,  for  whisky  is  scarcer  than  hen's  teeth  be- 
tween this  and  the  Rockies." 

As  Peter  nodded  he  poured  out  the  drinks  and  settled 
down  in  Peter's  chair  with  the  air  of  one  very  much  at 
home. 

"Well,  Pete,  what's  yer  answer  to  be?"  he  said  at 
last.  "You  weren't  any  too  polite  when  I  left  here.  But 
I  didn't  think  you'd  turn  me  down  altogether.  And  you're 
straight.  I  know  that.  I've  been  countin'  on  your  sense 
of  justice.  How  would  you  like  to  be  treated  the  way  7 
was  treated  by  Mike  McGuire?" 

"I  wouldn't  like  it." 

"You  just  bet  you  wouldn't.  You  wouldn't  stand  for 
it,  you  wouldn't.  I've  got  justice  on  my  side  and  I've  got 
the  law — if  I  choose  to  use  it — but  I'd  rather  win  this 
case  as  man  to  man — without  its  getting  into  the  news- 
papers. That  wouldn't  matter  much  to  a  poor  man  like 
me,  but  it  would  make  a  heap  of  difference  to  a  man  who 
stands  where  McGuire  does." 

"That's  true." 

"Yes.  And  he  knows  it.  He  hasn't  got  a  leg  to  stand 
on."  Kennedy  paused  and  looked  Peter  over  coolly. 
Peter  had  been  studying  the  situation  critically,  playing 
his  game  with  some  care,  willing  to  placate  his  visitor 
and  yet  taking  pains  not  to  be  too  eager  to  gain  his  con- 
267 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


fidence.     So  he  carefully  lighted  his  cigarette  while  he 
debated  his  course  of  action. 

"What  makes  you  think  that  I'm  in  a  different  mood 
now  from  when  you  left  here?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?  Because  I  believe  that  you  know 
that  right's  right  and  wrong's  wrong." 

"But  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  want  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  case.'* 

"True  for  you.  But  you  will  when  I've  finished  talking 
to  you." 

"Will  I?"  ' 

"You  will  if  you're  not  a  fool,  which  you  ain't.  I  al- 
ways said  you  had  somethin'  between  your  ears  besides 
ivory.  You  don't  like  to  stay  poor  any  more  than  any- 
body else.  You  don't  have  to.  A  good  half  of  McGuire's 
money  is  mine.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  helpin*  to  smell 
that  copper  out  he'd  of  been  out  there  grub-stakin*  yet 
an'  that's  a  fact.  But  I'm  not  goin'  to  be  too  hard  on 
him.  I'm  no  hog.  I'm  goin'  to  let  him  down  easy.  What's 
a  million  more  or  less  to  him?  It  might  pinch  him  a  little 
here  and  there  sellin'  out  securities  he  had  a  fancy  for, 
but  in  a  year  or  so  he'd  have  it  all  back  and  more,  the 
way  he  works.  Oh,  I  know.  I've  found  out  a  bit  since 
I've  been  away.  And  he'll  come  across  all  right,  when 
he  hears  what  I've  got  to  say  to  him." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  him  direct?"  asked  Peter. 

"And  have  him  barricadin'  the  house  and  shootin* 
promiscuous  at  me  from  the  windows?  Not  on  your  life. 
I  know  what  I'm  about.  This  thing  has  got  to  be  done 
quiet.  There's  no  use  stirring  up  a  dirty  scandal  to  hurt 
his  reputation  for  honest  dealin'  in  New  York.  Even  as 
it  is,  the  story  has  got  around  about  the  mystery  of  Black 
Rock.  No  use  makin'  talk.  That's  why  I  want  you. 
You  stand  ace  high  with  the  old  man.  He'll  listen  to  you 
and  we'll  work  the  game  all  right  and  proper." 
268 


PETER— A  CONSPIRATOR 

"But  suppose  he  won't  listen  to  me." 

"Then  we'll  put  the  screws  on.'* 

"What  screws?" 

Hawk  Kennedy  closed  one  eye  and  squinted  the  other 
at  Peter  quizzically. 

"I'll  tell  you  that  all  in  good  time.  But  first  I've  got 
to  know  how  you  stand  in  the  matter." 

Peter  judicially  examined  the  ash  of  his  cigarette.  "He 
ought  to  do  the  right  thing,"  he  said  slowly. 

"He  will — never  you  fear.  But  can  I  count  on  you, 
Pete?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  Peter  after  a 
moment. 

"Oh,  now  we're  talkin'.  But  wait  a  minute.  We  won't 
go  so  fast.  Are  you  with  me  sure  enough — hope  I  may 
die — cross  my  heart?" 

"If  youll  make  it  worth  my  while,"  said  Peter  cau- 
tiously. 

"A  hundred  thousand.    How's  that?" 

"It  sounds  all  right.  But  I  can't  see  what  I  can  do 
that  you  couldn't  do  yourself." 

"Don't  you?  Well,  you  don't  know  all  this  story. 
There's  some  of  it  you  haven't  heard.  Maybe  it's  that 
will  convince  you  you're  makin'  no  mistake " 

"Well— I'm  listening." 

A  shrewd  look  came  into  Kennedy's  face — a  narrowing 
of  the  eyelids,  a  drawing  of  the  muscles  at  the  mouth, 
as  he  searched  Peter's  face  with  a  sharp  glance. 

"If  you  play  me  false,  Pete,  I'll  have  your  heart's 
blood,"  he  said. 

Peter  only  laughed  at  him. 

"I'm  not  easily  scared.  Save  the  melodrama  for  Mc- 
Guire.  If  you  can  do  without  me — go  ahead.  Play  your 
hand  alone.  Don't  tell  me  anything.  I  don't  want  to 
know." 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


The  bluff  worked,  for  Kennedy  relaxed  at  once. 

"Oh,  you're  a  cool  hand.  I  reckon  you  think  I  need 
you  or  I  wouldn't  be  here.  Well,  that's  so.  I  do  need 
you.  And  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  the  truth — even  if  it  gives 
away  my  hand." 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  Peter  indifferently. 

He  watched  his  old  "bunkie"  pour  out  another  drink 
of  the  whisky,  and  a  definite  plan  of  action  took  shape  in 
his  mind.  If  he  could  only  get  Kennedy  drunk  enough 
.  .  .  The  whisky  bottle  was  almost  empty — so  Peter  got 
up,  went  to  his  cupboard  and  brought  forth  another  one. 

"Good  old  Pete!"  said  Hawk.  "Seems  like  July  the 
first  didn't  make  much  difference  to  you." 

"A  present  from  Mr.  McGuire,"  Peter  explained. 

"Well,  here's  to  his  fat  bank  account.  May  it  soon  be 
ours."  And  he  drank  copiously.  Peter  filled  his  own  glass 
but  when  the  opportunity  offered  poured  most  of  it  into 
the  slop-bowl  just  behind  him. 

"I'm  goin'  to  tell  you,  Pete,  about  me  and  McGuire — 
about  how  we  got  that  mine.  It  ain't  a  pretty  story.  I 
told  you  some  of  it  but  not  the  real  part — nobody  but 
Mike  McGuire  and  I  know  that — and  he  wouldn't  tell  if 
it  was  the  last  thing  he  said  on  earth." 

"Oh,"  said  Peter,  "something  crooked,  eh?" 

Kennedy  laid  his  bony  fingers  along  Peter's  arm  while 
his  voice  sank  to  an  impressive  whisper. 

"Crooked  as  Hell,  Pete — crooked  as  Hell.  You  wouldn't 
think  Mike  McGuire  was  a  murderer — would  you?" 

"A  murderer !" 

Kennedy  nodded.  "We  took  that  mine — stole  it  from 
the  poor  guy  who  had  staked  out  his  claim.  Mike  killed 
him " 

"You  don't  mean ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Killed  him — stuck  him  in  the  ribs  with  a 
270 


PETER— A  CONSPIRATOR 

knife  when  he  wasn't  lookin'.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"McGuire — a  murderer !" 

"Sure.  Nice  sort  of  a  boss  you've  got !  And  he  could 
swing  for  it  if  I  didn't  hold  my  tongue." 

"This  is  serious " 

"You  bet  it  is — if  he  don't  come  across.  Now  I  guess 
you  know  why  he  was  so  cut  up  when  I  showed  up  around 
here.  I've  got  it  on  him  all  right." 

"Can  you  prove  it?" 

Kennedy  rubbed  his  chin  for  a  moment. 

"I  could  but  I  don't  want  to.  You  see — Pete "  He 

paused  again  and  blinked  pensively  at  his  glass.  "Well, 
you  see — in  a  manner  of  speakin' — he's  got  it  on  me  too." 

And  Peter  listened  while  his  villainous  companion  related 
the  well  known  tale  of  the  terrible  compact  between  the 
two  men  in  which  both  of  them  had  agreed  in  writing  to 
share  the  guilt  of  the  crime,  carefully  omitting  to  state 
the  compulsion  as  used  upon  McGuire.  Hawk  Kennedy 
lied.  If  Peter  had  ever  needed  any  further  proof  of  the 
honesty  of  his  employer  he  read  it  in  the  shifting  eye 
and  uncertain  verbiage  of  his  guest,  whose  tongue  now 
wagged  loosely  while  he  talked  of  the  two  papers,  one  of 
which  was  in  McGuire's  possession,  the  other  in  his  own. 
Hawk  was  no  pleasant  companion  for  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment. From  the  interesting  adventurer  of  the  Ber- 
mttdian,  Jim  Coast  had  been  slowly  changing  under 
Peter's  eyes  into  a  personality  moite  formidable  and 
sinister.  And  the  drink  seemed  to  be  bringing  into  im- 
portance potentialities  for  evil  at  which  Peter  had  only 
guessed.  That  he  meant  to  fight  to  the  last  ditch  for 
the  money  was  clear,  and  if  the  worst  came  would  even 
confess,  dragging  McGuire  down  among  the  ruins  of  both 
their  lives.  In  his  drunken  condition  it  would  have  been 
271 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


ridiculously  easy  for  Peter  to  have  overpowered  him,  but 
he  was  not  sure  to  what  end  that  would  lead. 

"You  say  there  were  two  papers,'*  said  Peter.  "Where 
are  they?" 

"McGuire's  got  his — here  at  Black  Rock,"  muttered 
Hawk. 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  asked  Peter  with  interest. 

"Where  would  he  keep  it?"  sneered  Hawk.  "In  his 
business  papers  for  'zecutors  to  look  over?" 

"And  where's  yours?"  asked  Peter. 

He  hoped  for  some  motion  of  Kennedy's  fingers  to  be- 
tray its  whereabouts,  but  the  man  only  poured  out  an- 
other drink  and  leered  at  Peter  unpleasantly. 

"That'sh  my  business,"  he  said  with  a  sneer. 

"Oh.    Is  it?    I  thought  I  was  to  have  a  hand  in  this." 

Kennedy  grinned. 

"Y'are.  Your  job  is  t*  get  other  paper  from  Mc- 
Guire's safe.  And  then  we'll  have  fortune  in — hie — nut- 
shell." 

The  man  wasn't  as  drunk  as  he  seemed.  Peter  shrugged. 

"I  see.  I've  got  to  turn  burglar  to  join  your  little 
criminal  society.  Suppose  I  refuse?" 

"Y*  won't.  Why,  Pete,  it  ought  to  be  easiest  job  in 
world.  A  few  dropsh  in  glass  when  you're  talkin'  busi- 
ness and  he'd  never  know  it  happened.  Then  we  'beat  it,* 
y'understand,  'n'  write  lettersh — nice  lettersh.  One  of  'em 
to  that  swell  daughter  of  his.  That  would  do  the  business, 
pronto." 

"Yes,  it  might,'*  admitted  Peter  ruminatively. 

"Sure  it  will — but  we'll  give  him  chance.  Are  y'  on?" 
he  asked. 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment.    And  then, 

"I  don't  see  why  you  want  that  paper  of  McGuire*s,*' 
he  said.  "They're  exactly  alike,  you  say — both  incrim- 
inating. And  if  you've  got  your  paper  handy " 

272 


PETER— A  CONSPIRATOR 

Peter  paused  but  Kennedy  was  in  the  act  of  swallowing 
another  glass  of  whisky  and  he  didn't  stop  to  answer  the 
half-formulated  query.  He  gave  a  gasp  of  satisfaction 
and  then  shrugged. 

"No  use,  Pete,"  he  said  huskily.  "I  said  I  had  paper 
and  I  have  paper  handy,  but  I've  got  to  have  McGuire's 
paper  too.  I  ain't  got  money  and  spotless  rep'tation 
like  Mike  McGuire  but  I  don't  want  paper  like  that 
floatin'  roun*  universh  with  my  name  signed  to  it." 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Peter  dryly. 

Hawk  Kennedy  was  talking  thickly  now  and  spilled  the 
whisky  in  trying  to  pour  out  a  new  glassful. 

"Goo'  whisky  this — goo'  ole  whisky,  Pete.  Goo'  ole 
Peter.  Say,  you'll  get  pater,  Peep — I  mean  Peter  pape — 
OhH Paper.  You  know." 

"I'll  have  to  think  about  it,  Jim." 

"Can't  think  when  yer  drunk,  Pete,"  he  muttered  with 
an  expiring  grin.  "To-morr'.  'Nother  drink  an'  then 
we'll  go  sleep.  Don't  mind  my  sleepin'  here,  Pete.  Nice 
plache  shleep.  Goo'  old  shleep.  .  .  ." 

Peter  paused  in  the  act  of  pouring  out  another  drink 
for  him  and  then  at  a  sound  from  Kennedy  set  the  bottle 
down  again.  The  man  suddenly  sprawled  sideways  in  the 
chair,  his  head  back,  snoring  heavily.  Peter  watched  him 
for  a  moment,  sure  that  he  couldn't  be  shamming  and  then 
looked  around  the  disordered  room.  Hawk's  overcoat  and 
hat  lay  on  the  bed.  On  tiptoe  Peter  got  up  and  examined 
them  carefully,  watching  the  man  in  the  chair  intently  the 
while.  Hawk  stirred  but  did  not  awaken.  Peter  searched 
the  overcoat  inch  by  inch.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
pockets,  but  a  tin  of  tobacco  and  a  Philadelphia  news- 
paper. So  Peter  restored  the  articles  and  then  hung  the 
hat  and  coat  on  the  nails  behind  the  door.  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy did  not  move.  He  was  dead  drunk. 
273 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


The  repulsive  task  of  searching  the  recumbent  figure 
now  lay  before  him.  But  the  game  had  been  worth  the 
candle.  If  the  fateful  confession  was  anywhere  in  Hawk's 
clothing  Peter  meant  to  find  it  and  yet  even  now  he  hesi- 
tated. He  put  the  whisky  bottle  away,  cleared  up  the 
mess  and  then  bodily  picked  his  visitor  up  and  carried 
him  to  the  bed.  Hawk  muttered  something  in  his  sleep 
but  fell  prone  and  immediately  was  snoring  stertorously. 
Then  Peter  went  through  his  pockets  methodically,  re- 
moving an  automatic  pistol  from  his  trousers,  and  ex- 
amining all  his  papers  carefully  by  the  light  of  the  lamp — 
a  hotel  bill  receipted,  some  letters  in  a  woman's  hand,  a 
few  newspaper  clippings  bearing  on  the  copper  market, 
a  pocketbook  containing  bills  of  large  denomination,  some 
soiled  business  cards  of  representatives  of  commercial 
houses,  a  notebook  containing  addresses  and  small  ac- 
counts, a  pass  book  of  a  Philadelphia  bank,  the  address 
of  which  Peter  noted.  And  that  was  all.  Exhausting 
every  resource  Peter  went  over  the  lining  of  his  coat  and 
vest,  inch  by  inch,  even  examined  his  underwear  and  his 
shoes  and  stockings.  From  the  skin  out,  Hawk  Kennedy 
had  now  no  secrets  from  Peter.  The  incriminating  con- 
fession was  not  on  Hawk  Kennedy's  clothing. 

At  last  Peter  gave  up  the  search  and  went  out  into  the 
air,  and  lighted  his  corncob  pipe,  puzzled  at  his  failure. 
And  yet,  was  it  a  failure  after  all?  Hawk  had  eluded 
every  attempt  to  discuss  his  copy  of  the  confession.  He 
had  it  "handy,"  he  had  said.  A  safe  deposit  box  at  the 
Philadelphia  bank  of  which  Peter  had  made  record  would 
be  handy,  but  somehow  Peter  thought  the  chances  were 
much  against  Kennedy's  having  put  it  there.  Men  of  his 
type  usually  carry  everything  they  possess  about  their 
persons.  Peter  remembered  the  ragged  wallet  of  the 
Berrnxudian.  What  if  after  all  these  years  of  hardship  the 


PETER— A  CONSPIRATOR 

paper  had  been  worn  so  that  it  was  entirely  illegible,  or 
indeed  that  in  Kennedy's  many  wanderings  it  had  been 
lost?  Either  of  these  theories  was  plausible,  but  none 
provoked  a  decision.  So  after  awhile  Peter  went  indoors 
and  opening  all  the  windows  and  doors  to  cleanse  the  air, 
sat  in  the  big  chair  and  bundling  himself  in  a  blanket  fell 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
FACE  TO  FACE 

WE  are  told,  alas,  that  at  the  highest  moment  of 
our  expectations  the  gods  conspire  to  our  un- 
doing, and  therefore  that  it  is  wise  to  take  our 
joys  a  little  sadly,  that  we  may  not  fall  too  far.  But 
Beth,  being  wholesome  of  mind  and  body  and  an  optimist 
by  choice,  was  not  disposed  to  question  the  completeness 
of  her  contentment  or  look  for  any  dangers  which  might 
threaten  its  continuance.  And  so  when  Peter  went  home 
through  the  forest,  she  took  her  kerosene  lamp  to  her 
room,  there  to  smile  at  her  joyous  countenance  in  the 
mirror  and  to  assure  herself  that  never  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world  had  there  been  a  girl  more  glad  that  she 
had  been  born.  All  the  clouds  that  had  hung  about  her 
since  that  evening  in  the  woods  had  been  miraculously 
rolled  away  and  she  knew  again  as  she  had  known  before 
that  Peter  Nichols  was  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  for 
her. 

Their  evening  together  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  con- 
template, and  she  lay  in  bed,  her  eyes  wide  open,  star- 
ing toward  the  window,  beyond  which  in  a  dark  mass 
against  the  starlit  sky  she  could  see  the  familiar  pines, 
through  which  was  the  path  to  Peter's  cabin.  The  stars 
twinkled  jovially  with  assurance  that  the  night  could 
not  be  long  and  that  beyond  the  night  were  to-morrows 
still  more  wonderful  than  to-day.  And  praying  gently 
that  all  might  be  well  with  them  both,  she  fell  asleep, 
not  even  to  dream. 

276 


FACE  TO  FACE 


Early  morning  found  her  brisk  at  her  work  around  the 
house,  cleansing  and  polishing,  finishing  to  her  satis- 
faction the  tasks  which  Peter's  impatience  had  forbidden 
the  night  before.  All  of  Aunt  Tillie's  blue  china  set  was 
carefully  restored  to  its  shelves,  the  napery  folded  away, 
the  shiny  pots  hung  upon  their  hooks  and  the  kitchen 
carefully  mopped.  Then,  with  a  towel  wrapped  about 
her  head  (for  such  was  the  custom  of  the  country),  she 
attacked  the  dining-room  and  parlor  with  broom  and 
dust-cloth,  singing  arpeggios  to  remind  herself  that 
everything  was  right  with  the  world. 

It  was  upon  the  plush-covered  sofa  where  she  and  Peter 
had  sat  the  night  before  that  Beth's  orderly  eye  espied 
a  square  of  paper  just  upon  the  point  of  disappearing  in 
the  crease  between  the  seat  and  back  of  Aunt  Tillie's  most 
cherished  article  of  furniture  and  of  course  she  pounced 
upon  it  with  the  intention  of  destroying  it  at  the  cook- 
stove.  But  when  she  drew  it  forth,  she  found  that  it  was 
an  envelope,  heliotrope  in  color,  that  it  bore  Peter's  name 
in  a  feminine  handwriting,  and  that  it  had  a  strange 
delicate  odor  with  which  Beth  was  unfamiliar.  She  held 
it  in  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  writing,  then  turned  it 
over  and  over,  now  holding  it  more  gingerly  by  the  tip 
ends  of  her  fingers.  Then  she  sniffed  at  it  again.  It  was 
a  queer  perfume — strange — like  violet  mixed  with  some 
kind  of  spice. 

She  put  her  broom  aside  and  walked  to  the  window,  her 
brow  puckered,  and  scrutinized  the  postmark.  "London!" 
Of  course — London  was  in  England  where  Peter  had  once 
lived.  And  Peter  had  drawn  the  letter  from  his  pocket 
last  night  with  some  other  papers  when  he  had  shown  her 
the  communication  from  "Hawk"  Kennedy.  It  was  lucky 
that  she  had  found  it,  for  it  might  have  slipped  down  be- 
hind the  plush  covering,  and  so  have  been  definitely  lost. 
Of  course  Peter  had  friends  in  London  and  of  course  they 
277 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


should  wish  to  write  to  him,  but  for  the  first  time  it  seemed 
curious  to  Beth  that  in  all  their  conversations  Peter  had 
never  volunteered  any  information  as  to  the  life  that  he 
had  lived  before  he  had  come  to  Black  Rock.  She  re- 
membered now  that  she  had  told  him  that  whatever  his 
past  had  been  and  whoever  he  was,  he  was  good  enough 
for  her.  But  the  heliotrope  envelope  with  the  feminine 
handwriting  and  the  strange  odor  immediately  suggested 
queries  along  lines  of  investigation  which  had  never  before 
entered  her  thoughts.  Who  was  the  lady  of  the  delicate 
script  and  the  strange  perfume  ?  What  was  her  relation- 
ship to  Peter?  And  upon  what  topic  was  she  writing  to 
him? 

Beth  slipped  the  note  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  out 
of  its  envelope  until  she  could  just  see  a  line  of  the  writ- 
ing and  then  quickly  thrust  it  in  again,  put  the  envelope 
on  the  mantel  above  the  "parlor  heater"  and  resolutely 
went  on  with  her  sweeping.  From  time  to  time  she 
stopped  her  work  and  looked  at  it  just  to  be  sure  that 
it  was  still  there  and  at  last  took  it  up  in  her  fingers  again, 
a  prey  to  a  more  lively  curiosity  than  any  she  had  ever 
known.  She  put  the  envelope  down  again  and  turning 
her  back  to  it  went  into  the  kitchen.  Of  course  Peter 
would  tell  her  who  this  lady  was  if  she  asked  him.  And 
there  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  it  was  a  lady  who  had 
written  the  letter,  some  one  familiar  with  a  delicate  mode 
of  existence  and  given  to  refinements  which  had  been  de- 
nied to  Beth.  It  was  this  delicacy  and  refinement,  this 
flowing  inscription  written  with  such  careless  ease  and 
grace  which  challenged  Beth's  rusticity.  She  would  have 
liked  to  ask  Peter  about  the  lady  at  once.  But  Peter 
would  not  be  at  the  Cabin  at  this  early  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing, nor  would  Beth  be  able  to  see  him  until  late  this  after- 
noon— perhaps  not  until  to-night.  Meanwhile,  the  note 
upon  the  mantel  was  burning  its  way  into  her  conscious-. 
278 


FACE  TO  FACE 


ness.  It  was  endued  with  a  personality  feminine,  insidious 
and  persuasive.  No  ladies  of  London  affecting  heliotrope 
envelopes  had  any  business  writing  scented  notes  to  Peter 
now.  He  was  Beth's  particular  property.  .  .  . 

When  she  went  up  to  the  second  floor  of  the  cottage  a 
few  minutes  later  she  took  the  heliotrope  letter  with  her 
and  put  it  on  her  bureau,  propped  against  the  pincushion, 
while  she  went  on  with  her  work.  And  then,  all  her 
duties  for  the  morning  finished,  she  sat  down  in  her  rock- 
ing chair  by  the  window,  the  envelope  in  her  idle  fingers, 
a  victim  of  temptation.  She  looked  out  at  the  pine  woods, 
her  gaze  afar,  her  guilty  fingers  slipping  the  letter  out 
of  its  covering  an  inch,  two  inches.  And  then  Beth  opened 
Peter's  heliotrope  note  and  read  it.  At  least,  she  read  as 
much  of  it  as  she  could  understand, — the  parts  that  were 
written  in  English — with  growing  amazement  and  in- 
certitude. A  good  deal  of  the  English  part  even  was 
Greek  to  her,  but  she  could  understand  enough  to  know 
that  a  mystery  of  some  sort  hung  about  the  letter  and 
about  Peter,  that  he  was  apparently  a  person  of  some 
importance  to  the  heliotrope  lady  who  addressed  him  in 
affectionate  terms  and  with  the  utmost  freedom.  Beth 
had  learned  in  the  French  ballads  which  Peter  had  taught 
her  that  ami  meant  friend  and  that  bel  meant  beautiful. 
And  as  the  whole  of  the  paragraph  containing  those  words 
was  written  in  English,  Beth  had  little  difficulty  in  under- 
standing it.  What  had  Peter  to  do  with  the  cause  of  Holy 
Russia?  And  what  was  this  danger  to  him  from  hidden 
enemies,  which  could  make  necessary  this  discretion  and 
watchfulness  in  Black  Rock?  And  the  last  sentence  of 
all  danced  before  Beth's  eyes  as  though  it  had  been  written 
in  Tetters  of  fire.  "There  is  at  least  one  heart  in  London 
that  ever  beats  fondly  in  memory  of  the  dear  dead  days 
at  Galitzin  and  Zukovo." 

What  right  had  the  heliotrope  lady's  heart  to  beat 
279 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


fondly  in  memory  of  dear  dead  days  with  Peter  Nichols 
at  Galitzin  or  Zukovo  or  anywhere  else?  Who  was  she? 
Was  she  young?  Was  she  beautiful?  And  what  right 
had  Peter  given  her  to  address  him  in  terms  of  such  af- 
fection ?  Anastasie ! 

And  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  though  to  all 
outward  appearance  calm,  Beth  felt  the  pangs  of  jeal- 
ousy. This  letter,  most  of  it  in  the  queer-looking  script 
(probably  Russian)  that  she  could  not  even  read,  in 
its  strange  references  in  English  to  things  beyond  her 
knowledge,  seemed  suddenly  to  erect  a  barrier  between 
her  and  Peter  that  could  never  be  passed,  or  even  to  indi- 
cate a  barrier  between  them  that  had  always  existed  with- 
out her  knowledge.  And  if  all  of  the  parts  of  the  letter 
that  she  could  not  understand  contained  sentiments  like 
the  English  part  that  she  could  understand,  it  was  a 
very  terrible  letter  indeed  and  indicated  that  this  helio- 
trope woman  (she  was  no  longer  "lady"  now)  had  claims 
upon  Peter's  heart  which  came  long  before  Beth's.  And 
if  this  Anastasie — other  women  too.  .  .  . 

Beth  read  the  letter  again  and  then  slipped  it  back  into 
its  envelope,  while  she  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the 
pines,  a  frown  at  her  brows  and  two  tiny  lines  curving 
downward  at  the  corners  of  her  lips.  She  was  very  un- 
happy. But  she  was  angry  too — angry  at  the  heliotrope 
woman,  angry  at  Peter  and  angrier  still  at  herself.  In 
that  moment  she  forgot  that  she  had  taken  Peter  Nichols 
without  reference  to  what  he  was  or  had  been.  She  had 
told  him  that  only  the  future  mattered  and  now  she  knew 
that  the  past  was  beginning  to  matter  very  much  indeed. 

After  a  while  she  got  up,  and  took  the  heliotrope  letter 
to  the  bureau  where  she  wrote  upon  the  envelope  rather 
viciously  with  a  soft  lead  pencil,  "You  left  this  last  night. 
You'd  better  go  back  to  Anastasie."  Then  she  slipped 
the  letter  into  her  waist  and  with  an  air  of  decision  went 
280 


FACE  TO  FACE 


down  the  stairs  (the  ominous  parentheses  still  around  her 
mouth),  and  made  her  way  with  rapid  footsteps  toward 
the  path  through  the  forest  which  led  toward  Peter's 
cabin. 

Beth  was  primitive,  highly  honorable  by  instinct  if  not 
by  precept,  but  a  creature  of  impulse,  very  much  in  love, 
who  read  by  intuition  the  intrusion  of  what  seemed  a  very 
real  danger  to  her  happiness.  If  her  conscience  warned 
her  that  she  was  transgressing  the  rules  of  polite  pro- 
cedure, something  stronger  than  a  sense  of  propriety 
urged  her  on  to  read,  something  stronger  than  mere 
curiosity — the  impulse  of  self-preservation,  the  impulse 
to  preserve  that  which  was  stronger  even  than  self — the 
love  of  Peter  Nichols. 

The  scrawl  that  she  had  written  upon  the  envelope  was 
eloquent  of  her  point  of  view,  at  once  a  taunt,  a  renuncia- 
tion and  a  confession.  "You  left  this  last  night.  You'd 
better  go  back  to  Anastasie !" 

It  was  the  intention  of  carrying  the  letter  to  Peter's 
cabin  and  there  leaving  it  in  a  conspicuous  position  that 
now  led  her  rapidly  down  the  path  through  the  woods. 
Gone  were  the  tender  memories  of  the  night  before.  If 
this  woman  had  had  claims  upon  Peter  Nichols's  heart 
at  the  two  places  with  the  Russian  names,  she  had  the 
same  claims  upon  them  now.  Beth's  love  and  her  pride 
waged  a  battle  within  her  as  she  approached  the  Cabin. 
She  remembered  that  Peter  had  told  her  last  night  that  he 
would  have  a  long  day  at  the  lumber  camp,  but  as  she 
crossed  the  log-jam  she  found  herself  hoping  that  by 
some  chance  she  would  find  Peter  still  at  home,  where,  with 
a  fine  dignity  (which  she  mentally  rehearsed)  she  would 
demand  explanation,  and  listening,  grant  forgiveness. 
Or  else  .  .  .  she  didn't  like  to  think  of  the  alternative. 

But  instead  of  Peter,  at  the  Cabin  door  in  the  early 
morning  sunlight  she  found  a  strange  man,  sitting  in  a 
281 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


chair  in  the  portico,  smoking  one  of  Peter's  cigarettes, 
and  apparently  much  at  home.  The  appearance  of  the 
stranger  was  for  a  moment  disconcerting,  but  Beth  ap- 
proached the  familiar  doorway,  her  head  high,  the  helio- 
trope letter  burning  her  fingers.  She  had  intended  to 
walk  in  at  the  door  of  the  Cabin,  place  the  letter  in  a 
conspicuous  position  where  Peter  could  not  fail  to  see  it, 
and  then  return  to  her  home  and  haughtily  await  Peter's 
arrival.  But  the  presence  of  this  man,  a  stranger  in 
Black  Rock,  making  free  of  Peter's  habitation,  evidently 
with  Peter's  knowledge  and  consent,  made  her  pause  in  a 
moment  of  uncertainty. 

At  her  approach  the  man  in  the  chair  had  risen  and  she 
saw  that  he  was  tall — almost  as  tall  as  Peter,  that  he  had 
a  hooked  nose  and  displayed  a  set  of  irregular  teeth  when 
he  smiled — which  he  did,  not  unpleasantly.  There  was 
something  about  him  which  repelled  her  yet  fascinated  at 
the  same  time. 

"Mr.  Nichols  has  gone  out?"  Beth  asked,  for  something 
to  say. 

"Yes,  Miss,'*  said  the  stranger,  blinking  at  her  with 
his  bleary  eyes.  "Mr.  Nichols  is  down  at  the  lumber  camp 
— won't  be  back  until  night,  I  reckon.  Any  thin*  I  can 
do  for  ye?" 

"No,  I "  Beth  hesitated.  "I  just  wanted  to  see 

him — to  leave  somethin'  for  him." 

"I  guess  he'll  be  right  sorry  to  miss  you.  Who  shall 
I  say  called?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Beth,  turning  away.  But 
she  was  now  aware  of  a  strange  curiosity  as  to  this  per- 
son who  sat  with  such  an  air  of  well-being  in  Peter's  chair 
and  spoke  with  such  an  air  of  proprietorship.  The  in- 
sistence of  her  own  personal  affair  with  Peter  had  driven 
from  her  mind  all  thoughts  of  the  other  matters  sug- 
gested in  the  letter,  of  the  possible  dangers  to  Peter  even 
282 


FACE  TO  FACE 


here  in  Black  Rock  and  the  mysterious  references  to  Holy 
Russia.  This  man  who  stood  in  Peter's  portico,  whoever 
he  was,  was  not  a  Russian,  she  could  see  that  at  a  glance 
and  read  it  in  his  accents,  but  she  was  equally  certain 
from  his  general  character  that  he  could  be  no  friend 
of  Peter's  and  that  his  business  here  was  not  of  Peter's 
choosing. 

"If  ye'd  like  to  wait  a  while " 

He  offered  her  the  chair,  but  Beth  did  not  accept  it. 

"Ye  don't  happen  to  be  Miss  Peggy  McGuire,  do  ye?'* 
asked  the  stranger  curiously. 

"No,"  replied  the  girl.     "My  name  is  Beth  Cameron." 

"Beth ?" 

"Cameron,"  she  finished  firmly. 

«0h " 

The  stranger  seemed  to  be  examining  her  with  a  glow- 
ing interest,  but  his  look  was  clouded. 

Beth  had  decided  that  until  Peter  came  explaining  she 
had  no  further  possible  interest  either  in  him  or  his  af- 
fairs, but  in  spite  of  this  she  found  her  lips  suddenly  ask- 
ing* 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Mr.  Nichols's?" 

The  man  in  the  portico  grinned  somberly. 

"Yes.  I  guess  I  am — an  old  friend — before  he  came  to 
America." 

"Oh!"  said  Beth  quietly.  "You've  known  him  a  long^ 
time  then?" 

"Ye  might  say  so.     We  were  buddies  together." 

"Then  you  knew  him  in — in  London?" 

The  man  grinned.  "Can't  say  I  did.  Not  in  London. 
Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  know." 

The  gaze  of  the  stranger  upon  her  was  disquieting. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  be  smoldering  like  embers  just  ready 
to  blaze.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to  be  returning  and 
283 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


yet  she  didn't  want  to  go  leaving  her  object  unaccom- 
plished, the  dignity  of  her  plan  having  already  been 
greatly  disturbed.  And  so  she  hesitated,  curiosity  at 
war  with  discretion. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?'*  she  asked 
timidly. 

The  man  shrugged  a  shoulder  and  glanced  away  from 
her.  "I  reckon  my  name  wouldn't  mean  much  to  you." 

"Oh — I'm, sorry.     Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  asked?" 

The  stranger  put  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets  and 
stared  down  at  Beth  with  a  strange  intrusive  kind  of 
smile. 

"You  and  Pete  seem  kind  of  thick,  don't  ye?"  he 
muttered. 

"Pete!" 

"Pete  Nichols.  That's  his  name,  ain't  it?  Kind  of 
thick,  I'd  say.  I  can't  blame  him  though " 

"You're  mistaken,"  said  Beth  with  dignity,  "there's 
nothin'  between  Peter  Nichols  and  me."  And  turning 
heel,  Beth  took  a  step  away. 

"There!  Put  my  foot  in  it,  didn't  I?  I'm  sorry. 
Don't  go  yet.  I  want  to  ask  ye  something." 

Beth  paused  and  found  that  the  stranger  had  come 
out  from  the  portico  and  still  stood  beside  her.  And  as 
her  look  inquired  fearlessly, 

"It's  about  your  name,  Miss,"  he  muttered,  and  then 
with  an  effort  spoke  the  word  savagely,  as  though  it  had 
been  wrenched  from  him  by  an  effort  of  will,  "Cam- 
eron  ?  Your  name's  Cameron?" 

"Yes,"  said  Beth,  in  some  inquietude. 

"Common  name  in  some  parts — Cameron — not  so  com- 
mon in  others — not  in  Jersey  anyway " 

"I  didn't  know " 

"Is  yer  father  livin'?"  he  snapped. 

"No — dead.    Many  years  ago.    Out  West." 
284 


FACE  TO  FACE 


"Tsch!"  he  breathed,  the  air  whistling  between  his 
teeth,  "Out  West,  ye  say — out  West?" 

He  stood  in  front  of  Beth  now,  his  arms  akimbo,  his 
head  bent  forward  under  the  stress  of  some  excitement. 
Beth  drew  away  from  him,  but  he  came  forward  after 
her,  his  gaze  still  seeking  hers. 

"Yes — out  West,"  said  Beth  haltingly. 

"Where?"  he  gasped. 

"I  don't  know " 

"Was  his  name — was  his  name — Ben  Cameron?"  He 
shot  the  question  at  her  with  a  strange  fury,  catching 
meanwhile  at  her  arm. 

"Let  me  go ,"  she  commanded.  "You're  hurtin* 

me." 

"Was  it ?" 

"Yes.     Let  me  go." 

The  stranger's  grip  on  her  arm  suddenly  relaxed  and 
while  she  watched  his  face  in  curiosity  the  glow  in  his 
eyes  suddenly  flickered  out,  his  gaze  shifting  from  side  to 
side  as  he  seemed  to  shrink  away  from  her.  From 
timidity  at  his  roughness  she  found  new  courage  in  her 
curiosity  at  his  strange  behavior.  What  had  this  stranger 
to  do  with  Ben  Cameron? 

"What  did  you  want  to  know  for?"  she  asked  him. 

But  his  bent  brows  were  frowning  at  the  path  at  his 
feet.  He  tried  to  laugh — and  the  sound  of  the  dry 
cackle  had  little  mirth  in  it. 

"No  matter.  I — I  thought  it  might  be.  I  guess  ye'd 
better  go — I  guess  ye'd  better."  And  with  that  he  sank 
heavily  in  Peter's  chair  again. 

But  Beth  still  stood  and  stared  at  him,  aware  of  the 

sudden  change  in  his  attitude  toward  her.     What  did  it 

all  mean?    What  were  Peter's  relations  with  this  creature 

who  behaved  so  strangely  at  the  mention  of  her  name? 

285 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Why  did  he  speak  of  Ben  Cameron?  Who  was  he? 
Who ? 

The  feeling  of  which  she  had  at  first  been  conscious,  at 
the  man's  evil  leering  smile  which  repelled  her  suddenly 
culminated  in  a  pang  of  intuition.  This  man  ...  It 
must  be  ...  Hawk  Kennedy — the  man  who  .  .  .  She 
stared  at  him  with  a  new  horror  in  the  growing  pallor 
of  her  face  and  Hawk  Kennedy  saw  the  look.  It  was  as 
though  some  devilish  psychological  contrivance  had  sud- 
denly hooked  their  two  consciousnesses  to  the  same 
thought.  Both  saw  the  same  picture — the  sand,  the  rocks, 
the  blazing  sun  and  a  dead  man  lying  with  a  knife  in  his 
back.  .  .  .  And  Beth  continued  staring  as  though  in  a 
kind  of  horrible  fascination.  And  when  her  lips  moved 
she  spoke  as  though  impelled  by  a  force  beyond  her  own 
volition. 

"You — you're  Hawk  Kennedy,"  she  said  tensely,  "the 
man  who  killed  my  father." 

"It's  a  lie,"  he  gasped,  springing  to  his  feet.  "Who 
told  you  that?" 

"I— I  guessed  it " 

"Who  told  ye  about  Hawk  Kennedy?  Who  told  ye 
about  him?" 

"No  one " 

"Ye  didn't  dream  it.  Ye  can't  dream  a  name,"  he  said 
tensely.  "Pete  told  ye— he  lied  to  ye." 

"He  didn't." 

But  he  had  caught  her  by  the  wrist  again  and  dragged 
her  into  the  Cabin.  She  was  thoroughly  frightened  now — - 
too  frightened  even  to  cry  out — too  terrified  at  the  sud- 
den revelation  of  this  man  who  for  some  days  had  been  a 
kind  of  evil  spirit  in  the  background  of  her  happiness. 
He  was  not  like  what  she  had  thought  he  was,  but  he 
embodied  an  idea  that  was  sinister  and  terrible.  And 
while  she  wondered  what  he  was  going  to  do  next,  he 
286 


FACE  TO  FACE 


pushed  her  into  the  armchair,  locked  the  door  and  put 
the  key  into  his  pocket. 

"Now  we  can  talk,"  he  muttered  grimly.  "No  chance 
of  bein'  disturbed — Pete  ain't  due  for  hours  yet.  So  he's 
been  tellin'  you  lies  about  me.  Has  he?  Sayin*  /  done 
it.  By  G — ,  I'm  beginnin'  to  see.  .  .  .'* 

He  leered  at  her  horribly,  and  Beth  seemed  frozen  into 
her  chair.  The  courage  that  had  been  hers  a  moment  ago 
when  he  had  shrunk  away  from  her  had  fled  before  the 
fury  of  his  questions  and  the  violence  of  his  touch.  She 
was  intimidated  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  and  yet  she 
tried  to  meet  his  eyes,  which  burned  wildly,  shifting  from 
side  to  side  like  those  of  a  caged  beast.  In  her  terror  she 
could  not  tell  what  dauntless  instinct  had  urged  her  unless 
it  was  Ben  Cameron's  soul  in  agony  that  had  cried  out 
through  her  lips.  And  now  she  had  not  only  betrayed 
Peter — but  herself.  .  .  . 

"I'm  beginnin'  to  see.  You  and  Pete — playin'  both 
ends  against  the  middle,  with  McGuire  comin'  down  some- 
thin'  very  handsome  for  a  weddin'  present  and  leavin'  me 
out  in  the  cold.  Very  pretty !  But  it  ain't  goin'  to  work 
out  just  that  way — not  that  way  at  all." 

All  of  this  he  muttered  in  a  wildly  casual  kind  of  a  way, 
at  no  one  in  particular,  as  his  gaze  flitted  from  one  object 
in  the  room  to  another,  always  passing  over  Beth  almost 
impersonally.  But  in  a  moment  she  saw  his  gaze  con- 
centrate upon  her  with  sudden  eagerness. 

"He  told  ye  I  done  it,  did  he?  Well,  I  didn't,"  he 
cried  in  a  strident  voice.  "I  didn't  do  it.  It  was  Mc- 
Guire and  I'll  prove  it,  all  right.  McGuire.  Pete  can't 
fix  that  on  me — even  if  he  wanted  to.  But  he  told  you 
or  ye  wouldn't  of  spoke  like  ye  did.  I  guess  maybe  ye 
wouldn't  of  said  so  much  if  Pete  had  been  here.  But  ye 
let  the  cat  slip  out  of  the  bag  all  right.  You  and  Pete — 
and  maybe  McGuire's  with  ye  too — all  against  me.  Is 
287 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


that  so?  .  .  .  Can't  yer  speak,  girl?  Must  ye  sit  there 
just  starin'  at  me  with  yer  big  eyes?  What  are  ye  lookin' 
at?  Are  ye  dumb?" 

"No,  I'm  not  dumb,"  gasped  Beth,  struggling  for  her 
courage,  aware  all  the  while  of  the  physical  threat  in  the 
man's  very  presence. 

"Speak  then.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Pete  said  it  was  your 
money  McGuire  took — your  money  McGuire's  got  to 
make  good  to  ye?  Ain't  that  the  truth?" 

"I  won't  answer." 

"Oh,  yes,  ye  will.  You'll  answer  all  right.  I'm  not 
goin'  to  trifle.  What  did  ye  come  here  to  see  Pete  about? 
What's  that  letter  ye  came  to  give  him?  Give  it  to  me!" 

Beth  clutched  the  heliotrope  note  to  her  bosom  but 
Hawk  Kennedy  caught  at  her  hands  and  tried  to  tear  it 
away  from  her.  It  needed  only  this  new  act  of  physical 
violence  to  give  Beth  the  courage  of  despair.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet  eluding  him  but  he  caught  her  before  she 
reached  the  window.  She  struck  at  him  with  her  fists  but 
he  tore  the  letter  away  from  her  and  hurled  her  toward 
the  bed  over  which  she  fell  breathless.  There  was  no  use 
trying  to  fight  this  man.  .  .  .  There  was  a  cruelty  in  his 
touch  which  spoke  of  nameless  things.  .  .  .  And  so  she 
lay  motionless,  nursing  her  injured  wrists,  trying  desper- 
ately to  think  what  she  must  do. 

Meanwhile,  watching  her  keenly  from  the  tail  of  his 
eye,  Hawk  Kennedy  was  reading  the  heliotrope  letter, 
spelling  out  the  English  word  by  word.  Fascinated,  Beth 
saw  the  frown  of  curiosity  deepen  to  interest  and  then  to 
puzzled  absorption. 

"Interestin' — very,"  she  heard  him  mutter  at  last,  as 

he   glanced   toward   the  bed.      "Holy   Russia.      H ! 

What's  this  mean,  girl?    Who  w  Peter  Nichols?    Answer 
me." 

"I— I  don't  know,"  she  said. 
288 


FACE  TO  FACE 


"Yes,  ye  do.    Where  did  ye  get  this  letter?" 

"He  left  it  at— at  my  house  last  night." 

"Oh!    Your  house!    Where?"    " 

"In  the  village." 

"I  see.  An'  this  scrawl  on  the  envelope — you  wrote 
it " 

Beth  couldn't  reply.  He  was  dragging  her  through  the 
very  depths  of  humiliation. 

At  her  silence  his  lips  curved  in  ugly  amusement. 

"Anastasie !"  he  muttered.  "Some  queen  that — with  her 
purple  paper  an'  all.  And  ye  don't  know  who  she  is? 
Or  who  Pete  is  ?  Answer  me !" 

"I— I  don't  know,"  she  whispered.    "I— I  don't,  really." 

"H-m!  Well,  he  ain't  what  he's  seemed  to  be,  that's 
sure.  He  ain't  what  he's  seemed  to  be  to  you  and  he 
ain't  what  he's  seemed  to  be  to  me.  But  whoever  he  is  he 
can't  put  anything  over  on  me.  We'll  see  about  this." 

Beth  straightened  and  sat  up,  watching  him  pace  the 
floor  in  deep  thought.  There  might  be  a  chance  that  she 
could  escape  by  the  window.  But  when  she  started  up  he 
ordered  her  back  roughly  and  she  soon  saw  that  this  was 
impossible. 

At  last  he  stopped  walking  up  and  down  and  stared 
at  her,  his  eyes  narrowed  to  mere  slits,  his  brows  drawn 
ominously  together.  It  seemed  that  he  had  reached  a  de- 
cision. 

"You  behave  yourself  an'  do  what  I  tell  ye  an'  ye  won't 
be  hurt,"  he  growled. 

"Wh-what  are  you  goin'  to  do?"  she  gasped. 

"Nothin'  much.    Ye're  just  goin'  with  me— that's  all." 

"W-where?" 

"That's  my  business.  Oh,  ye  needn't  be  scared  of  any 
love  makin'.  I'm  not  on  that  lay  this  trip." 

He  went  to  the  drawer  of  Peter's  bureau  and  took  out 
some  handkerchiefs. 

289 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"But  ye'd  better  be  scared  if  ye  don't  do  what  I  tell 
ye.  Here.  Stand  up !" 

Beth  shrank  away  from  him,  but  he  caught  her  by  the 
wrists  and  held  her. 

"Ye're  not  to  make  a  noise,  d'ye  hear?  I  can't  take 
the  chance." 

And  while  she  still  struggled  desperately,  he  fastened 
her  wrists  together  behind  her.  Then  he  thrust  one  of 
Peter's  handkerchiefs  in  her  mouth  and  securely  gagged 
her.  He  wasn't  any  too  gentle  with  her  but  even  in  her 
terror  she  found  herself  thanking  God  that  it  was  only 
abduction  that  he  planned. 

Hawk  Kennedy  went  to  the  window  and  peered  out  up 
the  path,  then  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  around. 
After  a  moment  he  came  in  quickly, 

"Come,"  he  muttered,  "it's  time  we  were  off." 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  helped  her  to  her  feet, 
pushing  her  out  of  the  door  and  into  the  underbrush  at 
the  corner  of  the  cabin.  Her  feet  lagged,  her  knees  were 
weak,  but  the  grasp  on  her  shoulder  warned  her  of  cruel- 
ties she  had  not  dreamed  of  and  so  she  stumbled  on — on 
into  the  depths  of  the  forest,  Hawk  Kennedy's  hard  hand 
urging  her  on  to  greater  speed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

IT  was  with  some  misgivings  that  Peter  left  his  cabin, 
leaving  Hawk  Kennedy  there  to  sleep  off  the  effects 
of  his  potations,  but  the  situation  at  the  lumber  camp 
was  so  hazardous  that  his  presence  was  urgently  re- 
quired. Hawk  had  awakened  early,  very  early,  and  very 
thirsty,  but  Peter  had  told  him  that  there  was  no  more 
whisky  and  threatened  to  throw  over  the  whole  affair  if 
he  didn't  sober  up  and  behave  himself.  And  so,  having 
exacted  a  promise  from  Hawk  Kennedy  to  leave  the  Cabin 
when  he  had  had  his  sleep  out,  Peter  had  gotten  the  "fliv- 
ver" from  McGuire's  garage  (as  was  his  custom)  and 
driven  rapidly  down  toward  the  camp. 

He  had  almost  reached  the  conclusion  that  the  copy 
of  the  partnership  agreement  which  Hawk  had  held  as  a 
threat  over  McGuire  had  ceased  to  exist — that  it  had 
been  lost,  effaced  or  destroyed.  But  he  wanted  to  be 
more  certain  of  this  before  he  came  out  into  the  open, 
showed  his  hand  and  McGuire's  and  defied  the  blackmailer 
to  do  his  worst.  He  felt  pretty  sure  now  from  his  own 
knowledge  of  the  man  that,  desperate  though  he  was  in 
his  intention  to  gain  a  fortune  by  this  expedient,  he  was 
absolutely  powerless  to  do  evil  without  the  signature  of 
McGuire.  The  question  as  to  whether  or  not  he  would 
make  a  disagreeable  publicity  of  the  whole  affair  was  im- 
portant to  McGuire  and  had  to  be  avoided  if  possible,  for 
Peter  had  given  his  promise  to  bring  the  affair  to  a  quiet 
conclusion. 

291 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Until  he  could  have  a  further  talk  with  McGuire,  he 
meant  to  lead  Hawk  Kennedy  on  to  further  confidences 
and  with  this  end  in  view  and  with  the  further  purpose 
of  getting  him  away  from  the  Cabin,  had  promised  to 
meet  him  late  that  afternoon  at  a  fork  of  the  road  to  the 
lumber  camp,  the  other  prong  of  which  led  to  a  settlement 
of  several  shanties  where  Hawk  had  managed  to  get  a 
lodging  on  the  previous  night  and  on  several  other  oc- 
casions. In  his  talk  with  the  ex-waiter  he  learned  that 
on  his  previous  visits  the  man  had  made  a  careful  survey 
of  the  property  and  knew  his  way  about  almost  as  well 
as  Peter  did.  It  appeared  that  he  also  knew  something 
of  Peter's  problems  at  the  lumber  camp  and  the  difficulties 
the  superintendent  had  already  encountered  in  getting 
hfs  sawed  lumber  to  the  railroad  and  in  completing  his 
fire-towers.  Indeed,  these  difficulties  seemed  only  to  have 
begun  again,  and  it  was  with  great  regret  that  Peter  was 
obliged  to  forego  the  opportunity  of  seeing  Beth  that 
day,  perhaps  even  that  evening.  But  he  had  told  her 
nothing  of  his  troubles  the  night  before,  not  wishing  to 
cloud  a  day  so  fair  for  them  both. 

The  facts  were  these:  Flynn  and  Jacobi,  the  men  he 
had  dismissed,  had  appeared  again  at  the  camp  in  his 
absence,  bent  on  fomenting  trouble,  and  Shad  Wells, 
already  inflamed  against  the  superintendent,  had  fallen 
an  easy  prey  to  their  machinations.  Accidents  were  al- 
ways happening  at  the  sawmills,  accidents  to  machinery 
and  implements  culminating  at  last  in  the  blowing  out  of 
a  tube  of  one  of  the  boilers.  It  was  this  misfortune  that 
had  held  the  work  up  for  several  days  until  a  spare  boiler 
could  be  installed.  Peter  tried  to  find  out  how  these  ac- 
cidents had  happened,  but  each  line  of  investigation  led 
up  a  blind  alley.  Jesse  Brown,  his  foreman,  seemed  to  be 
loyal,  but  he  was  easy-going  and  weak.  With  many  of  his 
own  friends  among  the  workers  both  at  the  camp  and 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

mills  he  tried  to  hold  his  job  by  carrying  water  on  both 
shoulders  and  the  consequences  were  inevitable.  He  moved 
along  the  line  of  least  resistance  and  the  trouble  grew. 
Peter  saw  his  weakness  and  would  have  picked  another 
man  to  supersede  him,  but  there  was  no  other  available. 
The  truth  was  that  though  the  men's  wages  were  high  for 
the  kind  of  work  that  they  were  doing,  the  discontent  that 
they  had  brought  with  them  was  in  the  air.  The  evening 
papers  brought  word  of  trouble  in  every  direction,  the 
threatened  railroad  and  steel  strikes  and  the  prospect 
of  a  coalless  winter  when  the  miners  went  out  as  they 
threatened  to  do  on  the  first  of  November. 

At  first  Peter  had  thought  that  individually  many  of 
the  men  liked  him.  He  had  done  what  he  could  for  their 
comfort  and  paid  them  the  highest  price  justifiable,  but 
gradually  he  found  that  his  influence  was  being  under- 
mined and  that  the  good-natured  lagging  which  Peter  had 
at  first  tried  to  tolerate  had  turned  to  loafing  on  the  job, 
and  finally  to  overt  acts  of  rebellion.  More  men  had  been 
sent  away  and  others  with  even  less  conscience  had  taken 
their  places.  Some  of  them  had  enunciated  Bolshevist 
doctrines  as  wild  as  any  of  Flynn's  or  Jacobi's.  Jonathan 
K.  McGuire  stood  as  a  type  which  represented  the  hier- 
archy of  wealth  and  was  therefore  their  hereditary  enemy. 
Peter  in  a  quiet  talk  at  the  bunk-house  one  night  had  told 
them  that  once  Jonathan  K.  McGuire  had  been  as  poor, 
if  not  poorer,  than  any  one  of  them.  But  even  as  he 
spoke  he  had  felt  that  his  words  had  made  no  impression. 
It  was  what  McGuire  was  now  that  mattered,  they  told 
him.  All  this  land,  all  this  lumber,  was  the  people's,  and 
they'd  get  it  too  in  time.  With  great  earnestness,  born  of 
a  personal  experience  of  which  they  could  not  dream, 
Peter  pointed  out  to  them  what  had  happened  and  was 
now  happening  in  Russia  and  painted  a  harrowing  pic- 
ture of  helplessness  and  starvation,  but  they  smoked  their 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


pipes  in  silence  and  answered  him  not  at  all.  They  were 
not  to  be  reasoned  with.  If  the  Soviet  came  to  America 
they  were  willing  to  try  it.:  They  would  try  anything 
once. 

But  Shad  Wells  was  "canny"  and  Peter  had  never  suc- 
ceeded in  tracing  any  of  the  accidents  or  any  of  the  dis- 
sensions directly  to  his  door.  Without  evidence  against 
him  Peter  did  not  think  it  wise  to  send  him  out  of  camp, 
for  many  of  the  men  were  friendly  to  Shad  and  his  dis- 
missal was  sure  to  mean  an  upheaval  of  sorts.  Peter 
knew  that  Shad  hated  him  for  what  had  happened  at  the 
Cabin  but  that  in  his  heart  he  feared  to  come  out  into 
the  open  where  a  repetition  of  his  undoing  in  public  might 
destroy  his  influence  forever.  So  to  Peter's  face  he  was 
sullenly  obedient,  taking  care  to  give  the  appearance  of 
carrying  out  his  orders,  while  as  soon  as  Peter's  back 
was  turned  he  laughed,  loafed  and  encouraged  others  to 
do  the  same. 

And  for  the  last  week  Peter  had  not  liked  the  looks  of 
things.  At  the  lumber  camp  the  work  was  almost  at  a 
standstill,  and  the  sawmills  were  silent.  Jesse  Brown  had 
told  him  that  Flynn  and  Jacobi  had  been  at  the  bunk- 
house  and  that  the  men  had  voted  him  down  when  the 
foreman  had  tried  to  send  them  away.  It  was  clear  that 
some  radical  step  would  have  to  be  taken  at  once  to  re- 
store discipline  or  Peter's  authority  and  usefulness  as 
superintendent  would  be  only  a  matter  of  hours. 

It  was  of  all  of  these  things  that  Peter  thought  as  he 
bumped  his  way  in  the  "flivver"  over  the  corduroy  road 
through  the  swampy  land  which  led  to  the  lower  reserve, 
and  as  he  neared  the  scene  of  these  material  difficulties  all 
thought  of  Hawk  Kennedy  passed  from  his  mind.  There 
was  the  other  danger  too  that  had  been  one  of  the  many 
subjects  of  the  letter  of  Anastasie  Galitzin,  for  Peter 
had  no  doubt  now  that  the  foreigner  with  the  dark 
294 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

mustache  who  had  followed  him  down  from  New  York 
and  who  some  weeks  ago  had  been  sent  out  of  the  camp 
was  no  other  than  the  agent  of  the  Soviets,  who  had  for- 
warded to  London  the  information  as  to  his  whereabouts. 
Peter  had  not  seen  this  man  since  the  day  of  his  dismissal, 
but  he  suspected  that  he  was  in  the  plot  with  Flynn, 
Jacobi  and  perhaps  Shad  Wells  to  make  mischief  in  the 
lumber  camp. 

The  opportunity  that  Peter  sought  to  bring  matters 
to  a  focus  was  not  long  in  coming,  for  when  he  reached 
the  sawmills,  which  had  resumed  desultory  operations,  he 
found  Flynn  and  Jacobi,  the  "Reds,"  calmly  seated  in  the 
office,  smoking  and  talking  with  Shad  Wells.  Peter  had 
left  his  "flivver"  up  the  road  and  his  sudden  entrance  was 
a  surprise.  The  men  got  up  sullenly  and  would  have 
slouched  out  of  the  door  but  Peter  closed  it,  put  his  back 
to  it,  and  faced  them.  He  was  cold  with  anger  and  held 
himself  in  with  difficulty,  but  he  had  taken  their  measure 
and  meant  to  bring  on  a  crisis,  which  would  settle  their 
status  and  his  own,  once  and  for  all  time. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  began  shortly,  eying 
Flynn. 

The  Irishman  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
shrugged  impudently. 

"That's  my  business,"  he  muttered. 

"H-m.  You  two  men  were  discharged  because  you  were 
incompetent,  because  you  were  getting  money  you  didn't 
earn  and  because  you  were  trying  to  persuade  others  to 
be  as  worthless  and  useless  as  yourselves.  You  were  or- 
dered off  the  property " 

"Ye  can't  keep  us  off " 

"I'll  come  to  that  in  a  moment.    What  I  want  to  say 

to  you  now  is  this,"  said  Peter,  planting  his  barbs  with  the 

coolness  of  a  matador  baiting  his  bull.     "Some  men  go 

wrong  because  they've  been  badly  advised,  some  because 

295 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


they  can't  think  straight,  others  because  they'd  rather 
go  wrong  than  right.  Some  of  you  'Reds'  believe  in  what 
you  preach,  that  the  world  can  be  made  over  and  all  the 
money  and  the  land  divided  up  in  a  new  deal.  You  two 
don't.  You  don't  believe  in  anything  except  getting  a 
living  without  working  for  it — and  trying  to  make  honest 
men  do  the  same.  You,  Jacobi,  are  only  a  fool — a  coward- 
ly fool  at  that — who  hides  behind  the  coat-tails  of  a  man 
stronger  than  you " 

"Look-a  here,  Mister " 

"Yes,  Flynn's  your  master,  but  he  isn't  mine.  And  he 
isn't  the  master  of  any  man  on  this  job  while  I'm  superin- 
tendent  " 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  said  Flynn  with  a  chuckle. 

"Yes,  we  will.  Very  soon.  Now,  as  a  matter  of 
fact " 

"How?" 

"By  proving  which  is  the  better  man — you  or  me " 

"Oh,  it's  a  fight  ye  mean?" 

"Exactly." 

The  Irishman  leered  at  him  cunningly. 

"I'm  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  wit'  that  stuff — 
puttin'  you  wit'  the  right  on  yer  side.  We're  afther  shed- 
din'  no  blood  here,  Misther  Nichols.  We're  on  this  job 
for  peace  an*  justice  fer  all." 

"Then  you're  afraid  to  fight?" 

"No.    But  I'm  not  a-goin'  to " 

"Not  if  I  tell  you  you're  a  sneak,  a  liar  and  a  cow- 
ard  " 

Flynn's  jaw  worked  and  his  glance  passed  from  Jacobi 
to  Wells. 

"I'll  make  ye  eat  them  names  backwards  one  day, 
Misther  Nichols — but  not  now — I'm  here  for  a  bigger 
cause.  Stand  away  from  the  door." 

"In  a  moment.  But  first  let  me  tell  you  this,  and  Shad 
296 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

Wells  too.  You're  going  out  of  this  door  and  out  of  this 
camp, — all  three  of  you.  And  if  any  one  of  you  shows 
himself  inside  the  limits  of  this  property  he'll  have  to 
take  the  consequences." 

"Meanin'  what?"  asked  Wells. 

"Meaning  me,"  said  Peter,  "and  after  me,  the  law. 
Now  go." 

He  stood  aside  and  swung  the  door  open  with  one  hand, 
but  he  didn't  take  his  eyes  from  them. 

They  laughed  in  his  face,  but  they  obeyed  him,  filing 
out  into  the  open,  and  strolled  away. 

Peter  had  hoped  to  coax  a  fight  out  of  Flynn,  thinking 
that  the  Irish  blood  in  him  couldn't  resist  his  taunts  and 
challenge.  But  Flynn  had  been  too  clever  for  him.  A 
defeat  for  Flynn  meant  loss  of  prestige,  a  victory  pos- 
sible prosecution.  Either  way  he  had  nothing  to  gain. 
Perhaps  he  was  just  a  coward  like  Jacobi  or  a  beaten 
bully  like  Shad.  Whatever  he  was  Flynn  seemed  very 
sure  of  himself  and  Peter,  though  apparently  master  of 
the  situation  for  the  present,  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
defeat.  He  knew  as  Flynn  did  that  no  matter  what  forces 
he  called  to  his  aid,  it  was  practically  impossible  to  keep 
trespassers  off  a  property  of  this  size,  and  that,  after  all, 
the  success  of  his  logging  operations  remained  with  the 
men  themselves. 

But  he  breathed  more  freely  now  that  he  had  made  his 
Decision  with  regard  to  Shad  Wells.  He  spent  a  large 
part  of  the  morning  going  over  the  mills,  getting  the  men 
together  and  giving  them  a  little  talk,  then  went  up  to 
the  camp  in  search  of  Jesse  Brown.  The  news  of  his  en- 
counter with  Shad  and  the  "Reds"  had  preceded  him  and 
he  saw  that  trouble  was  brewing.  Jesse  Brown  wagged 
his  head  in  a  deprecating  way  and  tried  to  side-step  the 
entire  situation.  But  Peter  had  reached  a  point  where 
he  was  tired  of  equivocation. 
297 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  say,  Jesse,"  he  said  at  last,  "you've  let  things  get 
into  a  pretty  bad  mess  down  here.'* 

"I'm  a  peaceable  man,  Mr.  Nichols,"  said  Jesse.  "I've 
tried  to  steer  this  camp  along  easy-like,  'til  this  bit  of 
woods  is  cleared  up  and  here  you  go  stirrin'  up  a  hornet's 
nest  about  our  ears." 

Peter  frowned.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  men 
are  doing  just  as  they  please.  At  the  rate  they're  going 
they  wouldn't  have  this  section  finished  by  Christmas. 
I'm  paying  them  for  work  they  don't  do  and  you  know  it. 
I  put  you  in  here  to  see  that  McGuire  gets  what  he's  pay- 
ing for.  You  haven't  done  it." 

"I've  done  the  best  I  could,"  muttered  Jesse. 

"That  isn't  the  best  I  want.  You  knew  Flynn  and 
Jacobi  were  back  in  camp  yesterday.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  so?" 

"I  can't  do  nothin'.     They've  got  friends  here." 

"And  haven't  you  got  friends  here  too?  I  sent  those 
men  out  of  camp.  If  they're  here  again  I'll  find  the  power 
to  arrest  them." 

"I'd  advise  you  not  to  try  that." 

"Why?" 

"They're  stronger  than  you  think." 

"I'll  take  my  chances  on  that.  But  I  want  to  know 
where  you  stand.  Are  you  with  me  or  against  me?" 

"Well,"  said  Jesse,  rubbing  his  head  dubiously,  "I'll  do 
what  I  can." 

"All  right.  We'll  make  a  fresh  start.  Round  up  all 
hands.  I'm  going  to  talk  to  them  at  dinner  time." 

Jesse  glanced  at  him,  shrugged  and  went  out  and  Peter 
went  into  the  office  where  he  spent  the  intervening  time 
going  over  the  books.  It  was  there  that  one  of  the  clerks, 
a  man  named  Brierly,  brought  forth  from  the  drawer  of 
his  desk  a  small  pamphlet  which  he  had  picked  up  yester- 
day in  the  bunk-house.  Peter  opened  and  read  it.  It  was 
298 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

a  copy  of  the  new  manifest  of  the  Union  of  Russian 
Workers  and  though  written  in  English,  gave  every  mark 
of  origin  in  the  Lenin-Trotzky  regime  and  was  cleverly 
written  in  catch  phrases  meant  to  trap  the  ignorant.  It 
proposed  to  destroy  the  churches  and  erect  in  their  stead 
places  of  amusement  for  the  working  people.  He  read 
at  random.  "Beyond  the  blood-covered  barricades,  be- 
yond all  terrors  of  civil  war,  there  already  shines  for  us 
the  magnificent,  beautiful  form  of  man,  without  a  God, 
without  a  master,  and  full  of  authority."  Fine  doctrine 
this!  The  pamphlet  derided  the  law  and  the  state,  and 
urged  the  complete  destruction  of  private  ownership.  It 
predicted  the  coming  of  the  revolution  in  a  few  weeks, 
naming  the  day,  of  a  general  strike  of  all  industries  which 
would  paralyze  all  the  functions  of  commerce.  It  was 
Bolshevik  in  ideal,  Bolshevik  in  inspiration  and  it  opened 
Peter's  eyes  as  to  the  venality  of  the  gentleman  with  the 
black  mustache.  Brierly  also  told  him  that  whisky  had 
been  smuggled  into  the  camp  the  night  before  and  that 
a  fire  in  the  woods  had  luckily  been  put  out  before  it  had 
become  menacing.  Brierly  was  a  discharged  soldier  who 
had  learned  something  of  the  value  of  obedience  and  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  his  anxiety  and  his  sympathies.  He 
voiced  the  opinion  that  either  Flynn  or  Jacobi  had 
brought  in  the  liquor.  Peter  frowned.  Jesse  Brown  had 
said  nothing  of  this.  The  inference  was  obvious. 

At  the  dinner-shed,  Peter  was  to  be  made  aware  im- 
mediately of  the  difficulty  of  the  task  that  confronted 
him,  for  dour  looks  met  him  on  all  sides.  There  were  a 
few  men  who  sat  near  him  whom  he  thought  he  might  count 
on  at  a  venture,  but  they  were  very  few  and  their  posi- 
tions difficult.  Some  of  the  men  still  showed  the  effects  of 
their  drink  and  hurled  epithets  about  the  room,  obviously 
meant  for  Peter's  ear,  but  he  sat  through  the  meal  pa- 
299 


THE  VAGEANT  DUKE 


tiently  and  then  got  to  his  feet  and  demanded  their  at- 
tention. 

As  he  began  he  was  interrupted  by  hoots  and  cat-calls 
but  he  waited  calmly  for  silence  and  seeing  that  they 
couldn't  ruffle  him  by  buffoonery  they  desisted  after  a 
moment. 

"Men,  I'm  not  going  to  take  much  of  your  time,"  he 
said.  "A  short  while  ago  I  came  down  here  and  talked 
to  you.  Some  of  you  seemed  to  be  friendly  toward  me 
and  those  are  the  men  I  want  to  talk  to  now.  The  others 
don't  matter." 

"Oh,  don't  they?"  came  a  gruff  voice  from  a  crowd  near 
the  door.  And  another,  "We'll  see  about  that." 

Peter  tried  to  find  the  speakers  with  his  gaze  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  went  on  imperturbably.  "I'm  going  to  talk 
to  you  in  plain  English,  because  some  things  have  hap- 
pened in  this  camp  that  are  going  to  make  trouble  for 
everybody,  trouble  for  me,  trouble  for  McGuire,  but  more 
trouble  for  you." 

"That's  what  we're  lookin'   for— trouble ,"   cried 

the  same  voice,  and  Peter  now  identified  it  as  Flynn's, 
for  the  agitator  had  come  back  and  stolen  in  unawares. 

"Ah,  it's  you,  Flynn,"  said  Peter  easily.  "You've  come 
back."  And  then  to  the  crowd,  "I  don't  think  Flynn  is 
likely  to  be  disappointed  if  he's  looking  for  trouble,"  he 
said  dryly.  "Trouble  is  one  of  the  few  things  in  this 
world  a  man  can  find  if  he  looks  for  it." 

"Aye,  mon,  an'  without  lookin'  for  it,"  laughed  a  broad- 
chested  Scot  at  Peter's  table. 

"That's  right.  I  met  Flynn  a  while  ago  over  in  the 
office.  I  made  him  an  offer.  I  said  I'd  fight  him  fair 
just  man  to  man,  for  our  opinions.  He  refused.  I  also 
told  him  he  was  a  coward,  a  sneak  and  a  liar.  But  he 
wouldn't  fight — because  he's  what  I  said  he  was." 
300 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

"I'll  show  ye,  Misther ,"  shouted  Flynn,  "but  I  ain't 

ready  yet." 

"You'll  be  ready  when  this  meeting  is  over.  And  one 
of  us  is  going  out  of  this  camp  feet  first." 

"We'll  see  about  that." 

"One  of  us  will.    And  I  think  I'll  do  the  seeing." 

A  laugh  went  up  around  Peter,  drowned  immediately 
by  a  chorus  of  jeers  from  the  rear  of  the  room. 

But  Peter  managed  to  be  heard  again. 

"Well,  /  didn't  come  on  this  job  looking  for  trouble," 
he  went  on  coolly.  "I  wanted  to  help  you  chaps  in  any 
way  I  could."  ("The  Hell  you  did.")  "Yes,  I  did  what 
I  could  for  your  comfort.  I  raised  your  wages  and  I 
didn't  ask  more  than  an  honest  day's  work  from  any  one 
of  you.  Some  of  you  have  stuck  to  your  jobs  like  men, 
in  spite  of  the  talk  you've  heard  all  about  you,  and  I  thank 
you.  You  others,"  he  cried,  toward  the  rear  of  the  room, 
"I've  tried  to  meet  in  a  friendly  spirit  where  I  could,  but 

some  of  you  don't  want  friendship "  ("Not  with  you, 

we  don't.")  "Nor  with  any  one  else "  Peter  shouted 

back  defiantly.  "You  don't  know  what  friendship  means, 
or  you  wouldn't  try  to  make  discontent  and  trouble  for 
everybody,  when  you're  all  getting  a  good  wage  and  good 
living  conditions."  ("That  ain't  enough!") 

Peter  calmly  disregarded  the  interruptions  and  went  on. 
"Perhaps  you  fellows  think  I  don't  know  what  socialism 
means.  I  do.  To  the  true  socialist,  socialism  is  nothing 
else  but  Christianity.  It's  just  friendship,  that's  all.  He 
believes  in  helping  the  needy  and  the  weak.  He  believes 
in  defending  his  own  life  and  happiness  and  the  happiness 
of  others."  ("That's  true— that's  right.")  "And  he  be- 
lieves that  the  world  can  be  led  and  guided  by  a  great 
brotherhood  of  humanity  seeking  just  laws  and  equality 
for  all  men."  (Conflicting  cries  of  "That's  not  enough!" 
and  "Let  him  speak !")  "But  I  know  what  anarchy  means 
301 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


too,  because  less  than  six  months  ago  I  was  in  Russia  and 
I  saw  the  hellish  thing  at  work.  I  saw  men  turn  and  kill 
their  neighbors  because  the  neighbors  had  more  than  they 
had;  I  saw  a  whole  people  starving,  women  with  children 
at  the  breast,  men  raging,  ready  to  fly  at  one  another's 
throats  from  hunger,  from  anger,  from  fear  of  what  was 
coming  next.  That  is  what  anarchy  means." 

"What  yo.u  say  is  a  lie,"  came  a  clear  voice  in  English, 
with  a  slight  accent.  A  man  had  risen  at  the  rear  of  the 
room  and  stood  facing  Peter.  He  was  not  very  tall  and  he 
was  not  in  working  clothes,  but  Peter  recognized  him  at 
once  as  the  man  with  the  dark  mustache,  the  mysterious 
stranger  who  had  followed  him  to  Black  Rock.  Peter 
set  his  jaw  and  shrugged.  He  was  aware  now  of  all  the 
forces  with  which  he  had  to  deal. 

"What  does  anarchy  mean,  then?"  he  asked  coolly. 

"You  know  what  it  means,"  said  the  man,  pointing  an 
accusing  finger  at  Peter.  "It  means  only  the  end  of  all 
autocracy  whether  of  money  or  of  power,  the  destruction 
of  class  distinction  and  making  the  working  classes  the 
masters  of  all  general  wealth  which  they  alone  produce 
and  to  which  they  alone  are  entitled." 

A  roar  of  approval  went  up  from  the  rear  of  the  room 
and  cries  of,  "Go  it,  Bolsche,"  and  "Give  him  Hell,  Yaki- 
mov." 

Peter  waited  until  some  order  was  restored,  but  he 
knew  now  that  this  type  of  man  was  more  to  be  feared 
than  Flynn  or  any  other  professional  agitator  of  the 
I.  W.  W.  When  they  had  first  come  face  to  face,  this 
Russian  had  feigned  ignorance  of  English,  but  now  his 
clearly  enunciated  phrases,  though  unpolished,  indicated 
a  perfect  command  of  the  language,  and  of  his  subject. 
That  he  should  choose  this  time  to  come  out  into  the  open 
showed  that  he  was  more  sure  of  himself  and  of  his  audi- 
ence than  Peter  liked.  And  Peter  had  no  humor  to  match 
302 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

phrases  with  him.  Whatever  his  own  beliefs  since  he  had 
come  to  America,  one  fact  stood  clear:  That  he  was  em- 
ployed to  get  this  work  done  and  that  Yakimov,  Flynn 
and  others  were  trying  to  prevent  it.  It  was  to  be  no 
contest  of  philosophies  but  of  personalities  and  Peter  met 
the  issue  without  hesitation. 

"You  are  a  communist  then  and  not  a  socialist,"  said 
Peter,  "one  who  believes  in  everybody  sharing  alike 
whether  he  works  for  it  or  not — or  an  anarchist  who  be- 
lieves in  the  destruction  of  everything.  You're  an  agent 
of  the  Union  of  Russian  Workers,  aren't  you?" 

"And  what  if  I  am ?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  except  that  you  have  no  place  in  a  nation 
like  the  United  States,  which  was  founded  and  dedicated 
to  an  ideal,  higher  than  any  you  can  ever  know " 

"An  ideal — with  money  as  its  God " 

"And  what's  your  God,  Yakimov?" 

"Liberty " 

"License!  You  want  to  inflame — pillage — destroy — 
And  what  then?" 

"You  shall  see " 

"What  I  saw  in  Russia — no  wages  for  any  one,  no  har- 
vests, factories  idle,  blood — starvation — if  that's  what 
you  like,  why  did  you  leave  there,  Yakimov?" 

The  man  stood  tense  for  a  second  and  then  spoke  with  a 
clearness  heard  in  every  corner  of  the  room. 

"I  came  for  another  reason  than  yours.  I  came  to 
spread  the  gospel  of  labor  triumphant.  You  came  be- 
cause   Here  the  Russian  leaned  forward,  shaking 

his  fist,  his  eyes  suddenly  inflamed  and  hissing  his  words 
in  a  fury.  "You  came  because  you  believed  in  serfs  and 
human  slavery — because  your  own  land  spewed  you  out 
from  a  sick  stomach,  because  you  were  one  of  the  rotting 
sores  in  its  inside — that  had  made  Russia  the  dying  na- 
tion that  she  was ;  because  it  was  time  that  your  country 
303 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


and  my  country  cleansed  herself  from  such  as  you.  That's 
why  you  came.  And  we'll  let  these  men  judge  which  of  us 
they  want  to  lead  them  here.'* 

The  nature  of  the  attack  was  so  unexpected  that  Peter 
was  taken  for  a  moment  off  his  guard.  A  dead  silence 
had  fallen  upon  the  room  as  the  auditors  realized  that  a 
game  was  being  played  here  that  was  not  on  the  cards. 
Peter  felt  the  myriads  of  eyes  staring  at  him,  and  beyond 
them  had  a  vision  of  a  prostrate  figure  in  the  corner  of  a 
courtyard,  the  blood  reddening  his  blouse  under  the  fall- 
ing knout.  They  were  all  Michael  Kuprins,  these  for- 
eigners who  stared  at  him,  all  the  grievances  born  of 
centuries  of  oppression.  And  as  Peter  did  not  speak  at 
once,  Yakimov  pursued  his  advantage. 

"I  did  not  come  here  to  tell  who  this  man  is,"  he 
shouted,  "this  man  who  tells  you  what  liberty  is.  But 
you  ought  to  know.  It's  your  right.  You  know  why  Rus- 
sia rose  and  threw  off  the  yoke  of  bondage  of  centuries. 
It  was  because  this  man  before  you  who  calls  himself  Peter 
Nichols  and  others  like  him  bound  the  people  to  work 
for  him  by  terrible  laws,  taxed  them,  starved  them,  beat 
them,  killed  them,  that  he  and  others  like  him  might  buy 
jewels  for  their  mistresses  and  live  in  luxury  and  ease,  on 
the  sweat  of  the  labor  of  the  people.  And  he  asks  me  why 
I  came  to  America!  It  was  for  a  moment  such  as  this 
that  I  was  sent  here  to  find  him  out  that  I  might  meet  him 
face  to  face  and  confront  him  with  his  crimes — and  those 
of  his  father — against  humanity." 

Yakimov  paused  suddenly  in  his  furious  tirade  for  lack 
of  breath  and  in  the  deathly  silence  of  the  room,  there  was 
a  sudden  stir  as  a  rich  brogue  queried  anxiously  of  nobody 
in  particular: 

"Who  in  Hell  is  he,  then?" 

"I'll  tell  you  who  he  is,"  the  Russian  went  on,  getting 
his  breath.  "He's  one  of  the  last  of  a  race  of  tyrants  and 
304 


YAKIMOF  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

oppressors,  the  worst  the  world  has  ever  known — in  Rus- 
sia the  downtrodden.  He  fled  to  America  to  hide  until 
the  storm  had  blown  over,  hoping  to  return  and  take  his 
place  again  at  the  head  of  a  new  government  of  the 
Democrats  and  the  Bourgeoisie — the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch!" 

The  uproar  that  filled  the  room  for  a  moment  made 
speech  impossible.  But  every  eye  was  turned  on  Peter 
now,  some  in  incredulity,  some  in  malevolence,  and  some 
in  awe.  He  saw  that  it  was  now  useless  to  deny  his  iden- 
tity even  if  he  had  wished  to  do  so,  and  so  he  stood 
squarely  on  his  feet,  staring  at  Yakimov,  who  still  leaned 
forward  menacingly,  shrieking  above  the  tumult,  finally 
making  himself  heard. 

"And  this  is  the  man  who  dares  to  talk  to  you  about  a 
brotherhood  of  humanity,  just  laws  and  equality  among 
men !  This  tyrant  and  son  of  tyrants,  this  representative 
of  a  political  system  that  you  and  men  like  you  have  over- 
thrown for  all  time.  Is  this  the  man  you'll  take  your 
orders  from?  Or  from  the  Union  of  Russian  Workers 
which  hates  and  kills  all  oppressors  who  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  rights  and  liberties  of  the  workers  of  the  world !" 

A  roar  of  negation  went  up  from  the  rear  of  the  room, 
and  an  ominous  murmur  spread  from  man  to  man.  Only 
those  grouped  around  Peter,  some  Americans,  the  Scot, 
Brierly,  the  ex-soldier,  Jesse  Brown,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  Italians  remained  silent,  but  whether  in  awe  of  Peter 
or  of  his  position  could  not  be  determined.  But  Peter 
still  stood,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  firm  of  jaw  and  un- 
ruffled. It  has  been  said  that  Peter  had  a  commanding 
air  when  he  chose  and  when  he  slowly  raised  a  hand  for 
silence  the  uncouth  "Reds"  at  the  rear  of  the  room  obeyed 
him,  the  menacing  growl  sinking  to  a  mere  murmur.  But 
he  waited  until  perfect  silence  was  restored.  And  then 
quietly, 

305 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"What  this  man  has  said  is  true,"  he  announced  calmly. 
"I  am  Peter  Nicholaevitch.  I  came  to  America  as  you 
have  come — to  make  my  way.  What  does  it  matter  who 
my  fathers  were?  I  am  not  responsible  for  what  my  fa- 
thers did  before  me.  I  am  only  responsible  for  what  I  am 
• — myself.  If  this  man  in  whom  you  put  your  trust  would 
speak  the  truth,  he  would  tell  you  that  I  tried  to  bring 
peace  and  brotherhood  into  the  part  of  Russia  where  I 
lived "  , 

"He  lies » 

"I  speak  the  truth.  There  people  knew  that  I  was  their 
friend.  They  came  to  me  for  advice.  I  helped  them " 

"Then  why  did  they  burn  down  your  castle ?'*  broke  in 
Yakimov  triumphantly. 

"Because  people  such  as  you  from  the  Soviet  came 
among  honest  and  peaceful  men,  trying  to  make  them  as 
mad  as  you — I  came  from  Russia  to  find  new  life,  work, 
peace  and  happiness.  I  came  to  build.  You  came  to  de- 
stroy. And  I  intend  to  build  and  you  shall  not  destroy. 
If  the  madness  of  Russia  com.es  to  Black  Rock  it  will  be 
because  mad  dogs  come  foaming  at  the  mouth  and  making 
others  mad " 

A  savage  cry  went  up  and  a  glass  came  hurtling  at 
Peter's  head,  but  it  missed  him  and  crashed  against  the 
wall  behind  him.  That  crash  of  glass  liberated  the  pent- 
up  forces  in  the  hearts  of  these  men,  for  in  a  moment  the 
place  was  in  a  furious  uproar,  the  men  aligning  themselves 
in  two  camps,  that  of  Peter  and  his  friends  much  the 
smaller. 

Peter  retreated  a  pace  or  two  as  a  shot  was  fired  from  a 
revolver,  but  the  Scot  and  Briefly  and  two  of  the  Ameri- 
cans joined  him  and  met  the  first  onslaught  bravely.  The 
handful  of  men  was  forced  back  against  the  wall  by  sheer 
weight  of  numbers,  but  they  struck  out  manfully  with  their 
fists,  with  chairs,  and  with  their  feet,  with  any  object 
306 


YAKIMOV  REVEALS  HIMSELF 

that  came  to  hand,  and  men  went  down  with  bleeding 
heads.  Peter  was  armed  but  he  did  not  wish  to  kill  any 
one — his  idea  being  to  make  a  successful  retreat  to  the 
office,  where  the  telephone  would  put  him  in  touch  with 
May's  Landing  and  reinforcements.  Yakimov  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  crowd,  waving  a  revolver,  when  a  well-aimed 
missile  from  the  hand  of  the  Scot  sent  him  sprawling  to 
the  floor  among  the  benches. 

Peter  and  his  crowd  had  fought  their  way  to  the  door, 
when  Flynn  and  Jacobi  who  had  led  a  group  of  men  by 
the  other  door,  fell  on  them  from  the  rear.  Between  the 
two  groups  their  position  was  hopeless  but  Peter  fought 
his  way  out  into  the  open,  dodging  a  blow  from  Jacobi 
and  using  the  terrible  savate  in  Flynn's  stomach,  just  as 
Shad  Wells  rushed  at  him  from  one  side.  Peter  saw  the 
blow  coming  from  a  broken  axhandle — but  he  had  no 
time  to  avoid  it.  Instinctively  he  ducked  his  head  and 
threw  up  his  left  arm,  but  the  bludgeon  descended  and 
Peter  fell,  remembering  nothing  more. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 

WHEN  Peter  came  back  to  consciousness,  he  found 
himself  lying  in  the  shelter  of  the  underbrush 
alone.  And  while  he  attempted  to  gather  his 
scattered  wits  together  a  figure  came  creeping  through  the 
bushes  toward  him.  It  was  Brierly,  the  clerk,  carrying 
a  hatful  of  water  which  he  had  procured  from  the  neigh- 
boring rivulet.  Brierly  had  a  lump  on  his  forehead  about 
the  size  of  a  silver  dollar,  and  his  disheveled  appearance 
gave  evidence  of  an  active  part  in  the  melee. 

"What's  happened?"  asked  Peter  slowly,  starting  up  as 
memory  came  back  to  him. 

But  Brierly  didn't  answer  at  once. 

"Here,  drink  this.  I  don't  think  you're  badly 
hurt " 

"No.  Just  dazed  a  bit,"  muttered  Peter,  and  let 
Brierly  minister  to  him  for  a  moment. 

"You  see,  there  were  too  many  for  us,"  Brierly  ex- 
plained. "We  made  a  pretty  good  fight  of  it  at  that,  but 
they  buried  us  by  sheer  weight  of  numbers.  Yours  isn't 
the  only  bruised  head,  though.  Yakimov  got  his  early 
in  the  game — and  Jacobi.  And  gee !  but  that  was  a  'beaut' 
you  handed  Flynn — right  in  the  solar  plexus  with  your 
heel.  The  savate — wasn't  it?  I  saw  a  Frenchy  pull  that 
in  a  dive  in  Bordeaux.  I  reckon  Flynn  won't  be  doin* 
much  agitatin*  for  a  while — except  in  his  stommick." 

"How  did  I  get  here?"  asked  Peter. 

"I  hauled  you  into  the  bush  as  soon  as  I  got  a  chance — 
308 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


in  the  confusion — and  gradually,  got  you  back  in  here. 
But  I  think  they're  lookin*  for  us,  so  we'd  better  get  a 
move  on  soon  as  you're  fit  enough." 

"Where's  Jesse?" 

"Beat  it,  I  reckon.     Haven't  seen  him." 

"I  see."  And  then,  "Brierly,  I'm  obliged  to  you.  I'll 
try  to  make  it  up  to  you  for  this." 

"You  needn't  bother.  I'm  for  you.  You  can't  let  a  lot 
of  roughnecks  put  it  over  on  you  like  this." 

"No-— I  can't — I  can't,"  muttered  Peter. 

"I  wish  we  had  a  bunch  of  the  boys  I  was  with  over 
in  France  down  here.  There's  a  few  up  in  May's  Land- 
ing who'd  clean  this  lot  up  in  no  time." 

"I  wish  we  had  them."  Peter  straightened  with  some 
difficulty  and  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  as  the  thought 
came  to  him.  "I've  got  to  get  to  the  'phone,  Brierly." 

"No.  I  wouldn't  advise  that — not  here.  Those  rough- 
necks are  between  us  and  the  office — in  the  office  too,  I 
reckon,  by  this  time.  It  wouldn't  be  safe.  Who  were  you 
goin' to 'phone  to?" 

"May's  Landing — the  Sheriff.  I'm  going  to  see  this 
thing  through." 

"Righto !  And  I'm  with  you  to  a  fare-ye-well.  But 
it's  got  to  be  managed  different.  They'll  beat  you  to 
death  if  you  show  up  now.  It  was  Yakimov  that  shot  at 
you.  He's  after  you.  You  were  armed.  It's  a  wonder 
you  didn't  shoot  him  down."  And  then,  with  some  hesi- 
tation, "Say,  Mr.  Nichols.  You  ain't  really  the  Grand 
Duke  Peter,  are  you?" 

Peter  smiled.  "What's  left  of  him — I  am.  This  man 
Yakimov  is  an  agent  of  Trotzky." 

Brierly  whistled  softly  between  his  teeth.  "I  reckon  they 
want  to  get  you,  don't  they?" 

Peter  nodded.     "But  they  won't — not  yet." 

They  held  a  brief  council  of  war  and  in  a  moment  on 
309 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


hands  and  knees  were  making  their  way  through  the  un- 
derbrush in  the  general  direction  of  Black  Rock.  Behind 
them  they  heard  rough  laughter  and  an  occasional  out- 
burst of  song  which  proclaimed  that  new  supplies  of 
whisky  had  been  unearthed  and  that  the  anarchy  which 
Yakimov  so  much  desired  now  prevailed.  After  a  while, 
Peter  managed  to  get  to  his  feet  and  moved  on  at  a 
greater  speed.  He  had  only  been  stunned  by  Shad's  blow 
— a  part  of  the  force  of  which  he  had  caught  on  his  arm. 
The  arm  was  still  numb  and  his  head  thumped,  but  as  he 
went  on  in  the  cool  air  his  brain  cleared  and  he  found  it 
possible  to  plan  with  some  definiteness.  Brierly  knew  the 
sheriff  at  May's  Landing.  There  was  nothing  his  friends 
would  rather  do  than  to  be  sworn  in  as  deputies  for  a  job 
like  this.  He  had  thought  it  a  wonder  that  Peter  hadn't 
called  the  Sheriff  in  before. 

"I  thought  I  could  manage  the  situation  alone,  Brierly," 
said  Peter  quietly,  "but  it's  got  the  best  of  me." 

The  way  was  long  to  Black  Rock — at  least  eight  miles 
by  the  way  they  took — and  it  was  almost  six  o'clock  when 
they  reached  McGuire's.  They  knew  that  with  the  "fliv- 
ver" in  the  possession  of  the  outlaws  it  was  quite  possible 
that  some  of  the  ringleaders  of  the  disturbance  might 
have  preceded  them,  and  so  they  kept  under  cover  until 
near  the  house,  when  they  quickly  emerged  from  the  bushes 
and  made  their  way  to  the  kitchen  door,  entering  without 
knocking. 

An  unpleasant  surprise  awaited  them  here,  for  in  the 
kitchen,  securely  gagged  and  bound  to  a  chair,  they  found 
McGuire's  valet,  Stryker. 

It  took  only  a  moment  to  release  the  man  and  to  get 
the  gag  out  of  his  mouth,  when  he  began  sputtering  and 
pointing  toward  the  door  into  the  house. 

"Hawk — Hawk  Kennedy!"  the  amazed  Peter  made  out. 

And  after  staring  at  the  man  in  a  moment  of  bewilder- 
310 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


ment,  Peter  drew  out  his  revolver  and  dashed  through  the 
house,  keyed  up  at  once  to  new  adventure,  the  eager 
Brierly  at  his  heels.  They  went  up  the  stairs  and  to 
the  door  of  McGuire's  own  room,  where  they  stood  for  a 
moment  aghast  at  the  disorder  and  havoc  before  them. 

Papers  and  books  were  scattered  everywhere  upon  the 
floor,  chairs  were  overturned,  and  the  door  of  the  safe  was 
ajar.  At  first  he  saw  no  one,  but  when  Peter  entered  the 
room  he  heard  a  sound  from  the  corner  beyond  the  table, 
a  sound  halfway  between  a  gasp  and  a  groan,  and  there  he 
found  his  employer,  Jonathan  K.  McGuire,  doubled  up  on 
the  floor,  bound  and  trussed  like  his  valet  and  quite  as 
helpless.  It  was  evident  that  the  long  awaited  terror  had 
come  to  Black  Rock. 

But  if  he  was  dismayed  and  frightened  it  seemed  that 
McGuire  was  uninjured  and  when  he  was  released  he  was 
lifted  to  his  feet  and  a  chair,  into  which  he  sank 
speechless  for  a  moment  of  rehabilitation.  There  was  no 
need  to  question  him  as  to  what  had  happened  in  this 
room,  for  the  evidences  of  Hawk's  visit  and  its  purpose 
were  all  too  evident.  Without  a  word  to  McGuire,  Peter 
found  the  telephone  in  the  hall,  called  for  May's  Landing, 
then  turning  the  instrument  over  to  Brierly,  with  instruc- 
tions as  to  what  he  was  to  do,  returned  to  McGuire's  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said  briefly.     "I  see  he's  come." 

"My  God,  yes,"  gasped  McGuire.  "And  you  know  what 
he  came  for — he  got  it,  Nichols.  He  got  it." 

"That  proves  that  he  had  lost  the  duplicate,"  said 
Peter  quietly.  "How  did  it  all  happen?" 

The  old  man  drew  a  trembling  hand  across  his  brow. 

"He  took  me  off  my  guard — all  of  us.  I  don't  know. 
It  only  happened  half  an  hour  ago.  Where's  Stryker?" 

"He  was  tied  to  a  chair  in  the  kitchen.     We  let  him 
loose.     He's  outside  somewhere." 
311 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"And  Mrs.  Bergen  and  Sarah?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

Peter  went  to  the  door  and  called  Stryker  and  that  be- 
wildered person  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  with 
Mrs.  Bergen  and  Sarah  who  had  been  locked  in  the 
cellar.  Peter  called  them  up  and  they  all  began  screaming 
their  tale  at  once.  But  at  last  Peter  got  at  the  facts. 
Hawk  Kennedy  had  come  suddenly  into  the  kitchen  where 
the  two  women  were  and,  brandishing  a  revolver,  com- 
manding silence,  threatening  death  if  they  made  a  sound. 
He  had  surprised  the  valet  in  the  lower  hall  and  had 
marched  him  back  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  had  bound 
him  to  a  chair  with  a  clothes-line  and  then  gagged  him. 

McGuire  waved  the  trio  out  of  the  room  when  their 
story  was  told,  and  signaled  to  Peter  to  close  the  door 
again,  when  he  took  up  his  interrupted  tale. 

"I  was  at  the  window,  looking  out,  Nichols.  I  didn't 
expect  him  for  a  couple  of  weeks  anyway.  I'd  just  about 
gotten  my  nerve  back.  But  he  got  the  drop  on  me, 
Nichols.  How  he  ever  got  into  the  room  without  my  hear- 
in'  him!  I  must  have  been  in  a  trance.  His  shoes  were 
off.  The  first  thing  I  know  is  a  voice  close  at  my  ear 
and  a  gun  in  my  ribs.  I  turned  quick — but  my  gun 
was  in  the  table  drawer.  His  face  was  close  to  mine  and 
I  knew  he  meant  business.  If  I'd  'a'  moved  he'd  'a'  killed 
me.  So  I  put  my  hands  up.  There  wasn't  anything  else 
to  do.  I  thought  I'd  play  for  time  but  he  caught  my 
glance  toward  the  door  and  only  laughed. 

"'There  ain't  anybody  comin',  Mike,'  he  says.  'It's 
just  you  an'  me.'  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted  and  he 
grinned.  'You  know,'  he  sa,ys.  And  with  his  left  hand 
he  brought  out  a  rope  he  had  stuffed  in  his  pocket.  'I'll 
fix  you  first.  Then  we'll  talk,'  he  says.  He  was  cool  like 
he  always  was.  He  caught  a  slip  noose  around  my  wrists 
before  I  knew  it,  twisted  the  rope  around  me  and  threw 
312 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


me  over  on  the  floor.    I  tell  you  that  man  is  the  devil  him- 
self." 

"What  then?" 

"He  made  me  give  up  the  keys  to  the  drawers  in  the 
safe — it  was  open  just  like  it  is  now.  I  wouldn't  speak 
at  first  but  he  kicked  me  and  then  put  the  gun  at  my  head. 
I  still  hoped  some  one  would  come.  I  gave  in  at  last. 
He  found  it.  My  God!"  The  old  man  aroused  himself 
with  an  effort  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "But  we've  got  to 
catch  him — just  you  and  I.  He  can't  have  gone  far. 
We've  got  the  right  to  shoot  him  now — to  shoot  on 
sight " 

"Yes — yes.  I'm  getting  the  Sheriff  at  May's  Landing 
now " 

"The  Sheriff!"  The  Irishman's  small  eyes  stared  and 
then  became  alive  in  sudden  comprehension.  "Not  the 
Sheriff,  Nichols.  I  won't  have  him." 

"You've  got  to — at  once."  And  then  rapidly  Peter 
gave  an  account  of  what  had  happened  at  the  logging 
camp.  But  it  seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon  McGuire, 
who  listened  with  glassy  eyes.  He  was  obsessed  with  the 
other — the  graver  danger. 

"We'll  keep  this  thing  quiet  if  you  like — the  real  mean- 
ing of  this  visit,  and  we've  got  to  pick  up  his  trail.  But 
we  can't  let  those  men  at  the  camp  have  the  run  of  the 
place.  They'll  be  looting  this  house  next."  And  then,  as 
McGuire  seemed  to  agree,  Peter  went  to  the  door  and 
found  Brierly  still  on  the  'phone.  He  was  talking  to  the 
Sheriff  and  had  told  the  whole  story.  The  Sheriff  had 
already  heard  something  about  the  Black  Rock  camp 
trouble  and  would  be  ready  to  move  in  an  hour. 

"Tell  him  to  move  fast  and  to  come  to  McGuire's  first," 
said  Peter.  "And  you'll  be  here  to  show  him  the  way." 

Brierly  nodded  and  finished  the  message,  while  Peter  re- 
turned to  McGuire. 

313 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"What  else  did  Kennedy  say?'*  Peter. asked  him. 

"He  asked  a  lot  of  questions — about  you  and  Beth 
Cameron — about  the  money — about  what  I'd  promised 
you.  He's  the  very  devil,  I  tell  you.  He  knows  every- 
thing. He  said  he'd  'get'  you  and  that  he'd  'get'  Beth 
Cameron." 

Peter  caught  McGuire  fiercely  by  the  shoulder.  "What 
did  you  say?  Are  you  sure?" 

With  all  of  his  other  troubles  Peter  had  forgotten  Beth 
and  now  thought  guiltily  of  the  possible  danger  to  which 
she  might  have  been  subjected. 

How  could  Hawk  have  found  out  about  Beth  Cameron? 

"What  I  told  you,"  muttered  McGuire  wearily,  "he  said 
he'd  'get'  her " 

Sick  with  anxiety,  Peter  flung  away  from  his  protesting 
employer  and  made  for  the  door,  rushing  past  the  aston- 
ished Brierly  in  the  hall,  down  the  stairs  and  out  at  a 
run  over  the  bridge  and  through  the  village  to  the  Bergen 
house.  The  door  was  open  and  he  rushed  in,  calling  Beth's 
name.  There  was  no  response.  Now  desperate  and  fear- 
ing the  worst,  he  ran  from  room  to  room,  downstairs  and 
up.  There  were  signs  of  her — a  towel  on  a  chair,  a  broom 
leaning  against  a  door  upstairs,  the  neatly  made  beds, 
the  orderly  kitchen,  giving  evidence  of  the  morning  clean- 
ing, but  no  supper  cooking  on  the  stove,  the  fire  of  which 
had  burned  to  cinders.  She  had  not  been  here  for  a  long 
while — since  early  morning  possibly.  But  where  had  she 
.gone — where?  Hawk  Kennedy  would  hardly  have  dared 
to  come  here — to  the  village — hardly  have  succeeded  in 
enticing  her  away  from  this' house,  surrounded  by  neigh- 
bors— still  less  have  succeeded  in  carrying  her  off  with- 
out their  knowledge.  He  rushed  out  into  the  road  and 
questioned.  No  one  seemed  to  have  seen  her.  The  eager- 
ness and  suppressed  anxiety  of  Peter's  manner  quickly 
drew  a  crowd  which  felt  the  contagion  of  his  excitement. 
314 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


A  man  joined  the  group.  Yes.  He  had  seen  Beth  in  the 
morning  early.  She  was  hurrying  down  the  path  which 
led  into  the  pines.  He  had  not  seen  her  since. 

Peter  glanced  at  him  just  once  more  to  be  sure  that 
he  was  speaking  the  truth  and  then,  without  a  thought  as 
to  the  impression  he  had  created  in  the  minds  of  the  vil- 
lagers, set  off  running  through  the  path  toward  his  cabin. 

Fool  that  he  had  been!  To  leave  Beth  unguarded — 
unwarned  even — with  Hawk  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
her.  Why  had  he  not  seen  the  hand  of  fate  in  Beth's  pres- 
ence here  at  Black  Rock  near  McGuire,  the  man  who  had 
wronged  her  father — the  hand  of  fate,  which  with  un- 
erring definiteness  was  guiding  the  principals  in  this  sordid 
tragedy  together  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  a  reckon- 
ing? And  what  was  this  reckoning  to  be?  McGuire  had 
already  fallen  a  victim  to  the  man's  devilish  skill  and 

audacity.  And  Beth ?  What  match  was  she  for  a 

clever  desperate  rogue  who  balked  at  nothing?  How  had 
he  learned  of  Beth's  existence  and  how,  knowing  of  it,  had 
he  managed  to  beguile  her  away  from  the  village?  Peter 
was  beginning  to  believe  with  McGuire  that  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy was  indeed  in  league  with  the  devil. 

Peter  was  not  now  aware  of  any  pain  or  even  of  bodily 
fatigue,  for  there  was  no  room  in  his  mind  for  any  thought 
of  self.  Scarcely  conscious  of  his  new  exertions,  he  ran 
across  the  log- jam  below  the  pool  and  up  the  path  to  the 
Cabin.  What  he  expected  to  find  there  he  did  not  know, 
but  it  seemed  clear  that  Beth  had  come  this  way  in  the 
morning  and  if  not  to  the  Cabin,  where  else?  Hawk  had 
been  here  when  she  had  come  into  the  woodland  path. 
That  was  enough.  As  he  reached  the  turn  in  the  path, 
he  saw  that  the  door  of  the  Cabin  was  open  and  when  he 
rushed  in,  prepared  for  anything,  he  saw  that  the  room 
was  unoccupied.  He  stood  aghast  for  a  moment,  trying 
to  adjust  his  mind  to  take  in  logically  the  evidence  he 
315 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


found  there — the  overturned  chair,  the  blankets  dragging 
on  the  floor  by  the  bed,  the  broken  water  pitcher,  the 
opened  bureau  drawers,  the  torn  bits  of  linen — parts  of 
his  own  handkerchiefs — upon  the  floor — all  visible  signs 
of  a  commotion,  perhaps  of  a  struggle,  that  had  taken 
place.  And  then  under  the  table  he  espied  a  square  of 
heliotrope  paper.  He  picked  it  up  quickly  and  took  it  to 
the  light  of  the  window.  It  was  the  envelope  of  the  letter 
he  had  received  from  Anastasie  Galitzin.  And  what  was 

this ?  A  scrawl  in  Beth's  hand,  "You  left  this  last 

night.  You'd  better  go  back  to  Anastasie." 

Bewildered  for  a  moment,  Peter  stared  at  the  forceful 
characters  of  the  handwriting,  written  hurriedly  in  a 
scrawl  of  lead  pencil,  and  then  the  probable  sequence  of 
events  came  to  him  with  a  rush.  She  had  opened  the  note 
of  Anastasie  Galitzin  and  read  it.  What  had  it  said? 
He  had  forgotten  details.  But  there  were  phrases  that 

might  have  been  misconstrued.  And  Beth .  He  could 

see  her  now  coming  up  the  path,  her  head  high,  seeking  ex- 
planations— and  meeting  Hawk! 

But  where  was  the  letter  itself?  He  searched  for  it 
without  success.  Hawk!  The  answer  to  all  of  his  ques- 
tions was  in  the  personality  of  the  man  as  Peter  knew  him. 
The  bits  of  torn  linen  and  Beth's  own  handkerchief,  which 
he  found  in  the  corner  of  the  bed  against  the  wall, 
crumpled  into  a  ball  and  still  moist  with  her  tears,  were 
mute  but  eloquent  evidences  of  her  suffering  and  torture 
in  the  presence  of  this  man  who  had  not  been  too  delicate 
in  the  means  by  which  he  had  accomplished  her  subjuga- 
tion. 

Peter  raged  up  and  down  the  floor  of  the  Cabin  like  a 
caged  animal.  What  must  he  do — which  way  turn  ?  That 
Hawk  had  gagged  and  bound  her  was  obvious.  But  what 
then?  He  rushed  outside  and  examined  the  shrubbery 
around  the  Cabin.  There  was  nothing  to  indicate  the 
316 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


direction  in  which  he  had  taken  her — and  the  forest  at 
his  very  elbow  stretched  for  miles  in  all  directions,  a  hid- 
ing place  that  had  served  other  guilty  ones  before  Hawk — 
the  New  Jersey  pines  that  he  had  learned  to  love,  now 
wrapped  in  a  conspiracy  of  silence.  It  would  be  dusk 
very  soon.  A  search  of  the  pine  barrens  at  night  would  be 
hopeless.  Besides,  Hawk  had  had  the  whole  of  the  morning 
and  most  of  the  afternoon  in  which  to  carry  out  his  pur- 
pose. .  .  .  What  was  that  purpose  ?  Where  had  he  taken 
Beth?  Where  had  he  left  her  when  he  had  returned  to 
Black  Rock  House  to  rob  McGuire?  Or  had  he  .  .  .  ? 
Impossible !  Even  Hawk  wouldn't  have  dared  .  .  .  Peter 
clenched  his  fists  in  agony  and  rage  at  the  terrible 
thoughts  that  came  swarming  into  his  brain,  driving  out 
all  reason. 

His  Highness  had  suffered  greatly  the  last  few  years 
of  his  life,  the  physical  pain  of  wounds  received  in  battle, 
the  mental  pain  of  falling  hopes,  of  fallen  pride,  of  dis- 
illusionment, but  he  could  not  remember  any  pain  that  had 
seemed  to  matter  like  the  anguish  of  the  present  moment. 
The  other  sufferings  were  those  of  the  Grand  Duke  Peter 
Nicholaevitch,  material  sufferings  born  of  his  high  estate. 
But  this  present  suffering  was  primitive.  It  wrenched  at 
the  very  fibers  of  the  heart,  for  the  love  that  he  had  found 
was  a  finer  thing  than  had  ever  happened  in  his  life,  a 
love  which  asked  nothing  and  only  craved  the  joy  of  giv- 
ing. And  this  woman — this  mate  that  he  had  chosen  out 
of  all  the  women  that  he  had  known  in  the  world  .  .  .  ! 

Hawk  Kennedy  would  have  fared  badly  if  Peter  could 
have  had  him  within  arm's  reach  at  that  moment.  But 
after  a  time,  as  Peter  went  into  the  Cabin,  he  grew  calmer, 
and  pacing  the  floor  for  a  while,  began  to  think  more 
lucidly.  Less  than  an  hour  ago  Hawk  Kennedy  had  been 
at  Black  Rock  House  giving  Jonathan  McGuire  and 
Stryker  their  unpleasant  half-hour.  He  wouldn't  have 
317 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


dared  to  return  and  accomplish  what  he  had  done  after  a 
deed  so  terrible  as  that  which  had  entered  Peter's 
thoughts.  He  was  still  a  human  being  and  Beth  .  .  .  He 
couldn't  have  killed  Beth  out  of  hand.  The  thought  was 
monstrous — even  of  Hawk. 

He  had  taken  her  somewhere — to  one  of  his  hiding- 
places  in  the  woods,  and  proposed  keeping  her,  the  legal 
heir  of  Ben  Cameron,  for  ransom,  as  a  part  of  his  plot 
to  win  his  share  of  the  McGuire  fortune.  He  had  stolen 
the  telltale  agreement  too  and  now  held  all  the  cards — all 
of  them. 

Peter  paused  standing  by  the  window  seat,  looking  out 
at  the  leaves  falling  in  the  rising  wind,  his  mind  already 
resolved  on  a  plan.  He  was  about  to  turn  toward  the 
telephone,  when  he  noted  a  commotion  in  the  bushes  oppo- 
site his  window.  A  flash  of  fire  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, a  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  the  hair  on  his  head 
twitched  violently. 

Instinctively  Peter  dropped  to  the  floor. 

Close  shooting!  His  scalp  stung  uncomfortably — but 
aside  from  that  he  knew  that  he  was  not  hurt.  A  fraction 
of  an  inch  lower 

Hawk !  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  rush  to  the 

door — but  the  events  of  the  day  had  taught  him  caution 
and  so  he  crouched,  drawing  his  revolver.  Too  much  de- 
pended upon  his  existence  at  the  present  moment  to  take 
a  chance  in  the  open  with  a  hidden  enemy — especially  if 
that  enemy  were  Hawk  Kennedy.  He  listened  intently. 
No  sound.  Then  the  breaking  of  a  twig  and  the  sibilance 
of  whispering  voices — two  of  them — perhaps  more.  And 
still  Peter  did  not  move.  His  quick  thinking  had  done  him 
a  service.  It  was  clear  that  the  men  outside  had  decided 
that  the  shot  had  taken  effect. 

And  now,  instead  of  creeping  to  the  doorway,  Peter 
settled  back  upon  the  floor  again,  prostrate,  but  in  such 
318 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


a  position  that  his  eyes  and  his  revolver  commanded  the 
entrance  to  the  Cabin.  He  waited.  It  was  a  nerve-rack- 
ing business  but  the  thought  of  all  that  depended  upon 
his  safety  steadied  him  into  a  preternatural  calm  like  that 
which  falls  at  the  presence  of  death.  Death  was  imminent 
here  for  some  one.  It  lurked  just  outside.  It  lurked  in 
the  finger  that  Peter  held  against  the  trigger.  And  Peter 
meant  that  the  adventure  should  end  at  the  doorway. 

Presently  he  heard  a  gentle  shuffling  of  feet  outside  and 
the  whisper  again,  this  time  quite  distinctly,  "You  got 
him,  I  reckon." 

Whose  voice  was  that?  Not  Hawk  Kennedy's  .  .  . 
Peter  lowered  his  head  to  his  arm  and  closed  his  eyes, 
watching  the  door- jamb  through  his  eyelashes,  his  re- 
volver hidden  but  its  muzzle  in  line.  A  bulky  shadow  on 
the  step,  a  foot  and  then  a  head  cautiously  protruded — 
that  of  Shad  Wells,  followed  immediately  by  another, 
swathed  in  a  bandage  which  only  partially  concealed  the 
dark  eyes  and  beard  of  Yakimov  the  Russian.  It  took 
considerable  exercise  of  will  on  Peter's  part  to  remain 
quiescent  with  the  stare  of  those  four  eyes  upon  him, 
especially  when  he  noted  the  weapon  in  the  fingers  of  the 
Russian.  But  he  waited  until  the  two  men  got  into  the 
room. 

"There  he  is.  You  got  him,  Yakimov,"  said  Shad  with 
a  laugh. 

"Perhaps "  Peter  heard,  "but  I'll  make  sure  of 

it " 

Yakimov's  pistol  rose  slowly,  halfway  to  the  level  of 
his  eyes.  But  it  was  never  fired,  for  Peter's  revolver 
flashed  fire,  twice — three  times,  and  Yakimov  with  a  sud- 
den wide  stare  at  vacancy  pitched  forward  and  crashed 
down.  The  surprise  was  complete,  for  a  fourth  shot  went 
into  the  right  arm  of  Shad  Wells,  which  ruined  his  shot 
and  sent  his  weapon  clattering  to  the  floor. 
319 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Peter  had  taken  Shad's  measure  once  before  and  the 
memory  of  the  blow  from  the  axhandle  earlier  in  the  day 
did  nothing  to  soften  Peter's  intent.  The  quick  command 
as  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  the  sight  of  the  imminent 
weapon  caused  Shad  suddenly  to  forget  everything  but 
the  desire,  whatever  else  happened,  not  to  die  as  Yakimov 
had  done.  And  so  he  put  his  hands  up — staggering  back 
against  the  wall.  Peter,  with  his  weapon  still  covering 
Shad,  put  his  fingers  over  Yakimov's  heart.  The  man 
was  dead.  Then  he  rose  soberly  and  faced  Shad. 

"I  ought  to  kill  you  like  the  dog  that  you  are,"  he 
said  tensely,  "but  I  want  to  question  you  first.  Stand 
over  by  the  bed." 

Shad  obeyed  and  Peter,  watching  him  closely,  picked 
up  his  weapon  and  Yakimov's  and  examined  them  care- 
fully, putting  one  in  his  pocket  and  laying  the  other  be- 
side him  on  the  mantel.  But  all  the  fight  was  out  of  Shad, 
who  stood  stupidly  while  Peter  bound  his  wrists  behind 
him.  The  man  was  badly  hurt,  but  it  was  no  time  for 
Peter  to  be  playing  the  good  Samaritan. 

"So  much  for  keeping  bad  company,"  said  Peter  coolly. 
"You'll  find  more  of  the  same  sort  in  the  lock-up  at  May's 
Landing." 

"You  daresn't  send  me  there,"  muttered  Shad,  with  a 
feeble  attempt  at  bravado. 

"Won't  I?  You'll  see— for  attempted  murder.  The 
Sheriff  is  on  his  way  here  now.  Have  you  anything  to 
say?" 

Shad  was  silent,  eying  the  dead  man. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Peter.  He  closed  and  locked  the 
door  and,  keeping  the  man  covered  with  his  revolver, 
moved  to  the  telephone  and  got  McGuire  at  Black  Rock 
House,  telling  him  in  a  few  phrases  what  had  happened. 

"Yes,  Yakimov  the  Russian — I  shot  him  .  .  .  Yes 
...  I  killed  him.  It  was  to  save  my  own  life  .  .  .  Shad 
320 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


Wells  ...  A  prisoner.  Send  Brierly  with  a  car  down 
here  at  once.  Hawk  has  been  here  too  and  has  met 
Beth  Cameron  .  .  .  God  knows.  He  has  taken  her  away 
with  him  somewhere — abducted  her.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  Yes 
.  .  .  I've  got  to  find  her.  Yes,  Beth — can't  you  under- 
stand? .  .  .  She  came  here  to  bring  me  a  letter  .  .  . 
I  found  it.  Hawk  was  here  early  this  morning.  ...  I 
know  it.  He  bound  her  with  some  of  my  handkerchiefs 
.  .  .  No,  there's  no  doubt  of  it — none  at  all.  ...  I  can't 
stand  here  talking.  Send  Brierly  at  once.  Understand?" 

And  Peter  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  toward 
Shad,  who  was  leaning  forward  toward  him,  his  face  pale, 
his  mouth  agape  at  what  he  had  heard.  But  Peter,  un- 
aware of  the  sudden  transformation  in  his  prisoner,  only 
glanced  at  him  and  bending  over  began  a  search  of  the 
pockets  of  the  dead  man,  when  Shad's  voice  cut  the 
silence 

"You — you  say ,"  he  stammered  chokingly,  "you 

say  B-Beth  has  been  abducted,  Mister — Beth  Cameron?" 

Peter  straightened,  his  eyes  searching  the  lumberman's 
face. 

"Yes.  To-day — this  morning,"  he  answered  crisply. 
"What  of  it?  Do  you  know  anything ?" 

"Hawk  Kennedy  took  her?"  the  man  faltered.  "Are 
you  sure?" 

Peter  sprang  up,  his  eyes  blazing  with  eagerness. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Hawk  Kennedy?"  he  cried. 
And  then,  as  Shad  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  stricken 
dumb,  Peter  seized  him  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  him. 
"Speak!  Do  you  know  Hawk  Kennedy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Shad  in  a  bewildered  way.  "I  do — but 
Beth » 

"He's  taken  her  away — don't  you  understand?" 

«W-Why?" 

"God  knows,"  said  Peter  wildly.  "It's  part  of  a  plot— 
321 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


against  McGuire — to  get  money.  Do  you  know  where  he 
is?  Do  you  know  where  he's  gone  with  her?  Speak, 
man!  Or  must  I ?" 

"I  know  him.  I've  seen  him ,"  muttered  Shad  with 

a  hang-dog  air. 

"To-day?" 

"No." 

Peter  gasped  in  disappointment,  but  still  questioned 
quickly.  - 

"Where  did  you  see  him?" 

"Down  near  the  camp.  He  came  back  again  yester- 
day. He'd  been  away " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.    What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  was  very  peart — swaggered  around  like  he 
owned  the  place  and  talked  about  a  lot  of  money  he  was 
goin'  to  have.  An'  how  he  was ' 

"Do  you  know  where  he  took  Beth  Cameron?"  broke 
in  Peter  again. 

"No.     I  don't— My  God— Am/" 

"Yes,  him.  You  know  what  it  means.  He'd  kill  her  if 
he  dared." 

"Would  he?     My  God!  Mister.     You  can't  let " 

"No.  No."  And  then,  sharply,  "Speak  up,  Wells, 
and  I'll  set  you  free.  Do  you  know  where  he  could  have 
taken  her?" 

"I'm  not  sure,  but  maybe " 

"Where ?" 

"He  stayed  down  at  the  Forks " 

"Yes.  But  he  wouldn't  have  dared  to  take  her 
there " 

"No.    That's  so.    Maybe " 

"Where?" 

"Some  other  place " 

"Of  course.  Was  there  any  other  place  that  he  knew 
about?" 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


"Yes,  there  was.  But  when  he  first  came  he  rode  down 
on  a  horse  from  Hammonton." 

"Yes,  yes.    Go  on.    And  later " 

"He  used  to  come  around  the  camp  for  food.  It  was 
when  you  first  came  on  the  job.  But  he  bought  it  and 
paid  for  it." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.     Where  was  he  hiding?" 

"Back  in  the  woods.  He  used  to  sleep  in  the  old  tool 
house  down  by  the  cedar  swamp." 

Peter  was  now  on  edge  with  excitement. 

"Do  you  think  he'd  be  likely  to  take  Beth  there?" 

"How  should  I  know?  Maybe  he  took  her  to  Ham- 
monton or  Egg  Harbor." 

"No.  He  wouldn't  have  had  time.  Where's  this  tool 
house?" 

"About  half  a  mile  from  the  mills." 

"Could  you  show  me  the  way?" 

"I  reckon  I  could ,"  Shad  Wells  sank  into  a  chair 

and  bent  his  head.  "My  God!  Mister.  If  I'd  only  V 
known!  If  you'd  only  let  me  help  you — I  can't  stand 
thinkin'  of  anythin'  happenin'  to  Beth — you  an'  me — 
we  ain't  got  along,  an'  maybe  you've  got  the  upper  hand 
of  me,  but " 

"We've  got  to  forget  that  now,"  put  in  Peter  quickly, 
and  taking  out  his  hasp  knife  he  cut  the  cords  that  bound 
Shad's  wrists.  "Just  to  show  you  that  I  mean  what  I 
say."  And  then,  soberly,  "You  know  these  woods.  Help 
me  to  find  Beth  Cameron  and  I'll  make  no  charge  against 
you.  Is  that  a  bargain?'* 

"Yes,  Mister." 

Peter  glanced  at  his  face  and  at  the  blood  dripping 
from  his  finger  ends.  The  man  was  suffering  much  pain 
but  he  hadn't  whimpered. 

"All  right.  Take  off  your  coat  and  I'll  tie  your  arm 
up  first." 

323 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Silently  Shad  rose  and  obeyed  while  Peter  got  water 
and  washed  the  wound,  a  clean  one  right  through  the 
muscles  of  the  forearm.  But  no  bones  were  broken  and 
Peter  bandaged  it  skillfully.  Shad  clenched  his  jaws 
during  the  washing  of  the  wound  but  he  said  nothing  more. 
Peter  knew  that  the  man  still  hated  him  but  he  knew  also 
that  Shad  was  now  powerless  to  do  him  any  injury,  and 
that  there  was  a  tie  to  bind  them  now  into  this  strange 
alliance.  As  Peter  finished  the  bandaging  and  was  im- 
provising a  sling  for  the  wounded  arm,  Shad  crumpled 
side-long  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  his  face  ghastly,  and 
would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  if  Peter  hadn't  held  him  up- 
right, and  half  carried  him  to  the  armchair.  Then  Peter 
unlocked  a  cupboard  and  brought  forth  whisky,  giving 
Shad  half  a  tumblerful  and  in  a  moment  the  man  began  to 
revive.  So  Peter  poured  another  glass  and  slowly  Shad 
pulled  himself  together. 

"Perhaps  you're  not  up  to  it ,"  Peter  began. 

But  Shad  wagged  his  head  with  some  determination. 

"Yes,  I — I'm  up  to  it  all  right.  I've  got  to  go,  Mister. 
We'll  find  her  if  she's  in  these  woods " 

"Bully  for  you.    Feeling  better  now?" 

Shad  nodded  and  then  raised  his  head,  staring  with  a 
frown  out  of  the  window  by  the  piano.  Peter  had  been 
so  absorbed  in  his  task  of  setting  the  man  to  rights  that 
he  had  not  noticed  the  dull  glow  that  had  risen  in  the 
southern  sky.  And  following  Shad's  glance  he  turned 
his  head  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  At  first  he 
thought  it  might  be  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset  until  a 
word  from  Shad  aroused  him  to  the  real  significance  of 
the  light. 

"Fire!"  gasped  the  lumberman. 

"Fire !"  echoed  Peter,  aghast. 

"They've  set  the  woods  afire,  Mister,"  muttered  Shad 
helplessly. 


THE  RUSSIAN  PAYS 


At  the  same  moment  the  telephone  from  the  house  be- 
gan jangling  furiously.  It  was  McGuire,  who  had  made 
the  same  discovery. 

"Yes,"  replied  Peter  to  the  hysterical  questions.  "It's 
the  lumber  camp.  They've  broken  loose  and  set  the  woods 
afire.  You've  got  to  get  all  the  men  you  can  together 
and  rush  them  down  there.  Where's  Brierly?  On  the 
way?  Oh,  all  right.  Good.  He'll  take  me  down  and 
I'll  send  him  back.  .  .  .  Yes.  I've  got  a  clew  to  Hawk 
...  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  going  to  try  it.  I'm  taking 
Shad  Wells  with  me  ...  The  old  tool  house  by  the  cedar 
swamp.  Brierly  will  know.  Send  the  men  on  in  relays 
when  they  come — with  shovels  and  sacks.  .  .  .  What  did 

you  say?  .  .  .  What?  ...  Oh,  <D n  the  woods.'  .  .  . 

All  right.  I'll  get  the  paper  if  I  can  .  .  .  Yes.  It's  my 
affair  as  much  as  yours  now.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

Peter  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  to  Shad,  who  had 
risen,  his  arm  in  the  sling,  just  as  Brierly  came  running 
up  the  path  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  INFERNO 

THE  way  through  the  woods  was  long,  but  Beth 
stumbled  on,  urged  by  the  rough  tone  and  strong 
hand  of  her  captor.  She  knew  the  woods  well, 
better  than  Hawk,  but  she  had  never  ventured  so  far  into 
the  forest  as  he  led  her.  She  felt  very  certain  that  he 
knew  even  less  than  she  of  the  way  he  was  taking,  and  that 
his  object  in  avoiding  the  roads  and  paths  which  led  to 
the  southward  was  to  keep  her  hidden  from  the  eyes  of 
any  persons  that  might  be  met  on  the  paths  between 
Black  Rock  and  the  lumber  camp.  But  after  a  while  she 
began  to  think  that  he  knew  with  more  or  less  definiteness 
the  general  direction  in  which  they  were  moving,  for  he 
stopped  from  time  to  time  to  look  at  the  sun  and  get 
his  bearings.  And  then  with  a  gruff  word  he  would  move 
on  again,  always  to  the  south  and  east,  and  she  knew 
that  he  had  already  decided  upon  their  destination.  With 
her  hands  still  bound  behind  her,  progress  through  the 
underbrush  was  difficult,  for  the  branches  stung  her  like 
whip-lashes,  and  thorn-bushes  caught  at  her  arms  and 
tore  her  flimsy  frock  to  shreds.  The  gag  in  her  mouth 
made  breathing  painful,  but  Hawk  seemed  to  be  unaware 
of  her  sufferings  or  purposely  oblivious  of  them,  for  he 
hardly  glanced  at  her  and  said  no  word  except  to  urge 
her  on  to  greater  exertion. 

When  they  approached  the  road  which  he  wanted  to 
cross,  he  warned  her  with  an  oath  to  remain  where  he  left 
her  and  went,  forward  to  investigate,  after  which  he  re- 
326 


THE  INFERNO 


turned  and  hurried  her  across  into  the  thicket  upon  the 
other  side.  And  it  was  not  until  they  were  securely  hid- 
den again  far  from  the  sight  of  any  possible  passers-by 
that  he  untied  the  bonds  at  her  wrists  and  took  the  gag 
from  her  mouth.  But  she  knew  more  than  ever  that  she 
was  completely  in  his  power. 

He  was  sinister.  He  typified  terror,  physical  and  men- 
tal— and  behind  the  threat  of  his  very  presence  lay  the 
gruesome  vision  of  sand  and  sun  and  the  bearded  man 
lying  with  the  knife  in  his  back.  She  tried  to  summon  her 
native  courage  to  combat  her  fears,  to  believe  that  the 
situation  in  which  she  found  herself  was  not  so  evil  as  she 
imagined  it — and  that  soon  Hawk  Kennedy  would  have  a 
change  of  heart  and  give  her  a  chance  to  speak  in  her 
own  behalf.  But  he  silenced  her  gruffly  whenever  she  ad- 
dressed him  and  she  gave  up  at  last,  in  fear  of  bringing 
his  wrath  upon  her.  She  could  see  that  he  was  deeply 
intent  upon  his  object  to  get  her  away  from  Black  Rock 
where  none  could  find  her.  And  what  then? 

In  a  wild  impulse — a  moment  of  desperation,  she  broke 
away  from  him  and  ran,  but  he  caught  her  easily,  for  by 
this  time  she  was  very  tired.  Again,  she  thought  of  a 
struggle  with  him  hand  to  hand,  but  he  read  her  mind  and 
drew  a  pistol,  pushing  her  on  ahead  of  him  as  before, 
threatening  bodily  injury.  By  this  time  she  had  learned 
to  believe  him  capable  of  any  cruelty.  But  she  thanked 
God  that  the  dangers  that  threatened  were  only  those 
which  could  come  from  a  brutal  enemy  and  in  his  very 
brutality  she  even  found  refuge  from  the  other  and  more 
terrible  alternative  of  his  amiability.  As  Hawk  had  said, 
he  wasn't  "on  that  lay  this  trip.'* 

But  what  his  ultimate  purpose  was  she  had  no  means  of 

determining.      She    knew    that    he   was    totally    without 

scruple  and  had  thought  in  her  first  moments  of  terror 

that  he  meant  to  take  her  far  back  into  the  woods — and 

327 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


there  kill  her  as  he  had  done  her  father,  thus  again  de- 
stroying all  claim.  But  as  the  moments  passed  and  she 
saw  that  he  had  some  definite  objective,  the  feeble  rem- 
nants of  her  courage  gathered  strength.  Her  attempt  to 
escape  had  failed,  of  course,  but  his  tolerance  gave  her  a 
hope  that  he  did  not  dare  to  do  the  dreadful  violence  of 
which  she  had  thought. 

For  hours — it  seemed — they  went  through  underbrush 
and  swamp-land,  stopping  from  time  to  time  at  Hawk's 
command  while  he  listened  and  got  their  bearings.  Beth 
had  never  been  in  this  part  of  the  woods,  but  she  had  an 
idea,  from  the  crossing  of  the  road  and  the  character  of 
the  trees,  that  they  were  now  somewhere  in  the  Lower 
Reserve  and  not  very  far  from  the  lumber  camp.  It  was 
there  that  Peter  Nichols  was.  Her  heart  leaped  at  the 
thought  of  his  nearness.  All  memory  of  the  heliotrope 
envelope  and  of  its  contents  seemed  to  have  been  wiped 
from  her  consciousness  by  the  rough  usage  of  this  enemy 
to  them  both.  It  seemed  to  matter  very  little  now  who 
this  woman  was  that  Peter  had  known.  She  belonged  to  a 
mysterious  and  unhappy  past — for  he  had  hinted  at  that 
— which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  revelation  that  Beth 
had  read  in  his  eyes  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  wonderful 
present  for  them  both.  She  knew  now  that  he  could  have 
explained,  if  she  had  given  him  the  chance.  Instead  of 
which  she  had  rushed  heedlessly  to  misfortune,  the  victim 
of  a  childish  pride,  plunging  them  both  into  this  disaster. 
That  pride  was  a  pitiful  thing  now,  like  her  disordered 
hair  and  her  bedraggled  frock,  which  flapped  its  ribbons, 
soaked  and  muddy,  about  her  knees. 

But  as  long  as  she  was  still  alive  and  in  no  immediate 
danger,  she  tried  to  hope  for  some  incident  which  would 
send  Peter  back  to  Black  Rock  earlier  than  Hawk  had 
expected,  where,  at  the  Cabin,  he  would  guess  the  truth 
as  to  her  meeting  with  Hawk  and  what  had  followed.  But 
328 


THE  INFERNO 


how  could  he  guess  all  that?  The  difficulty  dismayed  her, 
He  would  hunt  for  her  of  course  as  soon  as  he  learned  of 
her  disappearance,  but  clever  as  he  was  there  seemed  no 
way  in  which  he  could  solve  the  mystery  of  her  flight,  still 
less,  having  guessed  Hawk  Kennedy's  purpose,  follow  any 
trail  through  the  wilderness  by  which  her  captor  had  led 
her. 

Even  in  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  her  situation, 
she  had  not  reached  the  point  of  actual  despair.  Youth 
and  her  customary  belief  in  all  that  was  good  in  the  world 
sustained  her.  Something  would  happen — something 
must  happen.  ...  As  she  trudged  along,  she  prayed  with 
her  whole  heart,  like  David,  to  be  delivered  from  the  hand 
of  the  oppressor. 

That  prayer  comforted  her  and  gave  her  strength  and 
so  when  they  came  out  at  the  edge  of  the  swamp  some  mo- 
ments later  she  obeyed  his  instructions  more  hopefully. 
There  was  a  path  along  the  edge  of  the  water  which  pres- 
ently led  into  the  heart  of  the  woods  again,  and  there 
almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it  she  found  herself  fac- 
ing a  small  wooden  house  or  shanty  which  seemed  in  a 
fairly  good  state  of  preservation. 

Silently,  Hawk  Kennedy  unfastened  the  hasp  which 
held  the  door,  and  gruffly  ordered  her  to  go  inside.  Won- 
dering, she  obeyed  him.  But  her  captor  now  acted  with  a 
celerity  which  while  it  gave  her  new  fears,  set  other  fears 
at  rest,  for  he  took  the  handkerchiefs  from  his  pockets 
and  gagged  and  bound  her  arms  and  wrists  again,  pushing 
her  down  on  a  pile  of  sacking  which  had  served  some  one 
for  a  bed,  tying  her  feet  and  knees  with  ropes  that  were 
there  so  that  she  could  neither  move  nor  make  a  sound. 

There  for  a  moment  he  stood,  staring  down  at  her  with 
a  grim  kind  of  humor,  born  of  his  successful  flight. 

"Some  kid,  by  G !  I'm  kinder  sorry — d if  I 

ain't.  But  ye  hadn't  any  business  bein'  who  ye  are.  I 
329 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


believe  I'd  rather  kill  ye  outright  than  hurt  ye  any  more — 
that  I  would.  Maybe  I  won't  have  to  do  either.  Under- 
stand? But  I  got  somethin'  to  do  first.  It  ain't  any 
child's  play  an'  I  ain't  got  much  time  to  spare.  Be  a  good 
kid  an'  lie  quiet  an'  go  to  sleep  and  I'll  be  back  after  a 
while  an'  set  ye  free.  Understand?" 

Beth  nodded  helplessly,  for  it  was  the  only  thing  that 
she  could  do  and  with  relief  watched  his  evil  shape  darken 
the  doorway  out  of  which  he  went,  carefully  closing  the 
door  and  fastening  the  hasp  on  the  outside.  Then  she 
heard  the  crunch  of  his  footsteps  in  the  dry  leaves  behind 
the  Cabin.  They  moved  rapidly  and  in  a  few  moments  she 
heard  them  no  more. 

Lying  on  her  side,  her  head  pillowed  on  the  bagging, 
it  did  not  seem  at  first  as  though  she  were  uncomfortable, 
and  her  eyes,  wide  open,  peered  around  her  prison.  There 
was  a  small  window  unglazed  and  by  the  light  which  came 
from  it  she  could  see  some  axhandles  piled  in  one  corner 
of  the  hut,  several  cross-cut  saws  on  a  box  at  one  side, 
a  few  picks  and  a  shovel  or  two.  It  must  be  a  tool  house 
used  for  the  storage  of  extra  implements  and  she  remem- 
bered dimly  that  Shad  had  once  spoken  of  the  cutting  that 
had  been  begun  down  by  the  swamp  and  abandoned  for 
a  better  location.  This  then  was  where  Hawk  Kennedy 
had  taken  her  and  she  knew  that  it  was  a  spot  little  visited 
nowadays  except  by  hunters,  and  at  some  distance  from 
the  scene  of  present  logging  operations,  toward  the  spur 
of  the  railroad.  It  was  here  perhaps  that  Hawk  Kennedy 
had  hidden  while  making  his  earlier  investigations  of  Black 
Rock  while  he  ripened  his  plot  against  Mr.  McGuire. 
There  were  several  empty  bottles  upon  the  floor,  a  moldy 
crust  of  bread,  and  a  broken  water-pitcher  which  con- 
firmed the  surmise. 

She  realized  that  Hawk  had  planned  well.  It  seemed 
hardly  possible  to  hope  for  a  chance  passer-by  in  this 
330 


THE  INFERNO 


deserted  spot.  And  even  if  she  heard  the  sound  of  guns 
or  even  heard  footsteps  in  the  leaves,  what  chance  had  she 
of  making  known  her  whereabouts?  But  she  strained  her 
ears,  listening,  only  to  hear  the  twittering  of  the  birds, 
the  chattering  of  squirrels  and  the  moaning  of  the  wind 
in  the  tree  tops.  How  near  was  freedom  and  yet  how 
difficult  of  attainment !  She  wriggled  gently  in  her  bonds 
but  each  motion  seemed  to  make  them  tighter,  until  they 
began  to  cut  more  and  more  cruelly  into  her  tender  flesh. 
She  tried  by  twisting  her  hands  and  bending  her  body  to 
touch  the  knots  at  her  knees  but  her  elbows  were  fastened 
securely  and  she  couldn't  reach  them.  And  at  last  she 
gave  up  the  attempt,  half  stifled  from  her  exertions  and 
suffering  acutely.  Then  she  lay  quiet,  sobbing  gently  to 
herself,  trying  to  find  a  comfortable  posture,  and  wonder- 
ing what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  all. 

Hours  passed  in  which  the  scampering  of  the  four- 
footed  things  grew  less  and  less  and  the  birds  ceased  their 
chirping.  Only  the  moaning  of  the  wind  continued,  high 
in  the  tree  tops.  Once  or  twice  she  thought  she  plainly 
heard  footsteps  near  by  and  renewed  her  efforts  to  free 
herself,  but  desisted  again  when  she  learned  that  it  was 
only  the  sound  of  the  flying  leaves  dancing  against  the 
outside  walls  of  her  prison. 

She  thought  of  all  the  things  that  had  happened  in 
her  brief  and  uneventful  life,  but  most  she  thought  of 
Peter  Nichols,  and  all  that  his  visit  to  Black  Rock  had 
meant  to  her.  And  even  in  her  physical  discomfort  and 
mental  anguish  found  herself  hoping  against  hope  that 
something  would  yet  happen  to  balk  the  sinister  plans  of 
Hawk  Kennedy,  whatever  they  were.  She  could  not  be- 
lieve that  happiness  such  as  hers  had  been  could  come  to 
such  a  dreadful  end  so  soon.  But  what  was  Hawk  Ken- 
nedy's mission  now?  Where  had  he  gone  unless  to  Black 
Rock  again?  And  what  would  he  be  doing  there?  Was 
331 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


revenge  his  motive  now,  stronger  since  her  revelation  of 
her  parentage?  And  was  it  Peter  that  he  was  going 
to  ...  ?  Her  cry  was  muffled  in  the  bandage.  He  had 
gone  back  to  Black  Rock  to  lie  in  wait  for  Peter — to  kill 
him  perhaps.  Sobbing  anew  she  struggled  again  with  her 
bonds,  until  at  last  she  lay  back  relaxed  and  exhausted, 
and  prayed  with  all  her  might  to  the  God  that  had  al- 
ways been  her  guide. 

And  after  a  while  she  grew  calm  again,  refreshed  and 
strengthened  by  her  faith.  No  harm  would  befall  Peter. 
No  further  harm  would  come  to  her.  Evil  such  as  Hawk's 
was  powerless  against  her  prayers.  Already  he  had  done 
her  a  great  injury.  The  God  of  her  faith  would  keep 
her  scatheless  until  Peter,  the  man  she  loved,  came  to  save 
her.  She  was  as  sure  of  this  now  as  though  she  could  see 
him  coming,  vengeance  in  his  hand,  with  long  strides 
through  the  forest  to  her  hiding-place.  And  so,  after 
a  while,  exhausted  from  her  efforts,  she  fell  into  a  doze. 

When  she  awoke  from  troubled  dreams  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  suffocation.  She  had  stirred  in  her  sleep  and  the 
thongs  had  cut  more  deeply  into  the  flesh  at  her  knees, 
causing  her  pain.  Below  the  knees  she  was  numb  from 
the  constant  pressure,  but  she  moved  her  toes  up  and  down 
and  her  limbs  tingled  painfully  as  the  constricted  blood 
flowed  into  her  extremities.  How  long  she  had  lain  there 
she  did  not  know,  but  the  interior  of  the  shed  seemed  to 
have  grown  quite  dark,  as  though  a  storm  were  rising 
outside.  The  wind  was  still  blowing,  and  above  the  moan- 
ing of  the  pines  she  could  hear  the  continuous  rustle  of 
the  leaves  and  the  creaking  of  moving  branches.  She 
managed  with  an  effort  to  turn  her  head  toward  the  win- 
dow, where  through  the  dark  leaves  of  the  overshadowing 
trees  she  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  sky,  which  seemed  to 
have  turned  to  a  pinkish  purple,  like  the  afterglow  of  a 
sunset.  Was  it  possible  that  she  could  have  slept  so  long? 
332 


THE  INFERNO 


In  the  turning  of  her  head  it  seemed  that  the  bandage 
over  her  mouth  had  become  loosened  and  as  she  tried  the 
experiment  again,  the  handkerchief  slipped  down  around 
her  neck.  In  a  moment  she  had  gotten  rid  of  the  wad  of 
linen  in  her  mouth.  At  least  she  could  breathe  freely  now 
and  moisten  her  parching  lips.  This  boon  seemed  almost 
in  answer  to  her  prayers.  And  if  one  bandage  could  come 
loose  by  God's  help,  why  not  another? 

And  so  cheerfully  and  with  a  persistence  which  took 
no  thought  of  the  pain  she  was  inflicting  upon  herself,  she 
began  working  her  hands  to  and  fro  behind  her  until  she 
fancied  that  the  pressure  on  her  wrists  was  not  so  great 
as  before.  With  an  effort  she  managed  to  wriggle  over 
against  the  wall  and  so  to  straighten  into  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. 

It  was  then  that  she  suddenly  raised  her  head  and 
sniffed  at  the  air  from  the  small  window  above  her  through 
which  a  slender  wisp  of  smoke  came  curling.  Smoke! 
The  smell  of  burning  brush,  familiar  to  her,  and  yet  back 
here  in  the  woods,  unless  from  a  well  tended  camp-fire, 
fraught  with  perilous  meaning.  She  glanced  out  of  the 
small  opening  again.  The  purple  had  grown  redder,  a 
dull  crimson  shot  with  streaks  of  blue — smoke  everywhere, 
endless  streamers  and  tortuous  billows  sweeping  down  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Fire  in  the  woods !  She  knew  the  meaning  of  that. 
And  the  reddish  purple  was  not  the  sunset  but  the  glow  of 
mighty  flames  near  by,  a  "crown"  fire  in  the  pines !  From 
the  volume  of  smoke,  increasing  with  every  moment,  it 
seemed  that  the  old  tool  house  in  which  she  was  imprisoned 
must  be  directly  in  the  path  of  the  flames.  Now  thor- 
oughly aware  of  her  possible  fate  if  she  could  not  release 
herself  she  strained  her  ears,  listening,  and  now  heard 
distinctly  above  the  sounds  nearer  at  hand  a  distant 
crackling  roar  and  the  thud  of  heavy  branches  falling. 
333 


THE  VAGEANT  DUKE 


The  interior  of  the  cabin  had  now  grown  even  dimmer — 
to  a  dark  redness — and  the  smoke  came  billowing  in  at  the 
window  almost  stifling  her  with  its  acrid  fumes.  Outside 
the  window,  when  she  struggled  for  freedom,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  sparks,  flying  like  meteors  past  the  dim 
rectangle  of  her  vision,  small  ones,  larger  ones,  and  then 
flaming  brands  which  must  set  fire  to  whatsoever  they 
touched. 

She  was  half  mad  now  with  terror.  She  tried  to  think 
calmly,  because  she  knew  that  unless  a  miracle  happened 
she  would  die  alone  here — the  most  horrible  of  all  deaths. 
And  then  her  eye  caught  the  gleam  of  something  upon  the 
tool  chest  in  the  shadows  beyond — the  teeth  of  the  cross- 
cut saw! 

If  she  could  reach  it!  She  fell  over  purposely  on  the 
sacking  and  with  great  difficulty  wriggled  slowly  toward 
it,  inch  by  inch.  Could  she  reach  it  with  her  wrists? 
With  an  effort  she  squirmed  to  the  chest  and  straightened, 
her  back  against  it,  as  she  had  done  against  the  wall,  and 
then  turning,  in  spite  of  the  increased  pressure  of  her 
thongs,  managed  in  some  way  to  get  to  her  knees,  feeling 
for  the  teeth  of  the  saw  with  her  fingers  behind  her.  It 
was  not  very  sharp,  but  if  she  could  direct  it  between  her 
wrists  it  would  do. 

In  her  new  thrill  of  hope,  she  was  hardly  conscious  of 
the  suffocating  smoke  which  now  filled  the  cabin,  sting- 
ing her  eyes  so  that  she  could  hardly  see,  or  of  the  heat 
which  with  her  exertions  had  sent  the  perspiration  stream- 
ing down  her  face.  For  now,  balancing  herself  with  great 
care,  she  moved  her  tortured  arms,  half  numb  with  pain, 
up  and  down  against  the  rusty  edges.  A  sharp  pain  and 
she  bit  her  lips, — readjusting  herself  to  her  task.  But 
she  felt  the  saw  cutting  into  the  rope — one  strand,  an- 
other, and  in  a  moment  her  hands  were  released. 

In  her  joy  of  the  achievement,  she  toppled  over  on  the 
334 


THE  INFERNO 


floor,  but  managed  to  release  her  elbows.  Now,  panting 
with  her  exertions  and  moving  her  arms  quickly  to  restore 
the  circulation,  she  felt  for  the  knots  at  her  knees  and 
ankles  and  in  a  moment  her  limbs  were  free.  But  she  had 
not  reckoned  with  the  effects  of  their  long  period  of  in- 
activity, for  when  she  tried  to  get  to  her  feet  she  found 
that  her  limbs  were  powerless.  But  she  moved  her  knees 
up  and  down,  suffering  keenly  as  the  blood  took  up  its 
course,  and  after  a  time  managed  to  scramble  to  her  feet, 
and  stagger  to  the  opening  in  the  wall. 

It  seemed  that  all  the  forest  was  now  a  mass  of  flaming 
brands  and  that  the  roar  of  the  flames  was  at  her  very 
ears.  It  was  stiflingly  hot  too  and  in  one  corner  of  the 
cabin  there  was  a  tiny  bright  spot  and  a  curl  of  smoke. 
Had  her  liberty  come  too  late?  She  was  not  even  free 
yet.  for  the  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  building  was  no  larger 
than  a  single  pane  of  glass  and  the  door  of  the  shanty 
was  fastened  by  the  hasp  on  the  outside. 

There  was  no  time  now  to  hesitate  unless  she  wished  to 
be  burned  alive.  With  an  effort  she  threw  herself  against 
the  door — again  and  again,  but  it  would  not  yield.  De- 
spairing and  blinded  by  smoke,  she  staggered  to  the  box 
hunting  an  ax,  when  her  fingers  met  the  handle  of  the 
friendly  saw.  It  was  heavy  but  she  knew  how  to  use  it, 
and  set  it  at  the  hole  in  the  wall,  drawing  it  back  and 
forth.  The  wood  was  dead  and  she  felt  it  yield  to  the 
strong  teeth  of  the  tool,  so  that  she  struggled  on,  the 
width  of  the  board ;  then  cut  again,  at  the  upper  edge  of 
the  aperture,  and  in  a  moment  the  board  fell  away. 

She  was  not  a  moment  too  soon,  for  as  she  crawled 
through  the  opening  and  fell  exhausted  on  the  outside, 
one  end  of  the  building  suddenly  caught  fire,  blazing 
fiercely.  The  sparks  were  all  around  her  and  her  skirt 
caught  fire  in  the  flaming  leaves  into  which  she  had  fallen, 
but  she  put  it  out  with  her  blistered  hands  and  rose  to 
335 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


her  feet.  A  figure  was  coming  toward  her,  bent,  its  hand 
before  its  eyes.  She  could  not  make  out  who  it  was,  but 
as  she  turned  to  run  Hawk  Kennedy  espied  her. 

"Ho  there,  kid!     Got  loose,  hey?     Just  in  time.     Did 
ye  think  I  was  goin'  to  let  ye  be  burned  to  death?" 
*  *  *         "  *  #  *  * 

With  Brierly  leading  them  to  the  machine  and  listen- 
ing to  Peter's  story  as  they  went,  Peter  made  his  way 
across  the  foot  of  the  lawn  to  the  road  where  the  machine 
was  waiting  for  them.  As  they  climbed  into  it,  the  glow 
to  the  south  had  turned  a  lurid  red,  staining  the  dusky 
sky  to  the  zenith.  Brierly  drove  and  for  precaution's  sake 
Peter  sat  in  the  tonneau  with  Shad.  But  the  lumberman, 
if  he  had  ever  been  considered  formidable  even  in  his  own 
estimation,  showed  no  evidence  of  any  self-confidence. 
Peter  had  given  him  signs  of  mettle  which  were  not  to  be 
denied  and  like  all  bullies  Shad  knew  that  he  was  beaten. 
The  one  vestige  of  his  decency, — his  honorable  affection 
for  Beth,  which  had  blinded  him  to  reason  and  all  sense 
of  duty,  was  now  dedicated  to  the  task  of  saving  her. 
And  though  the  dull  hatred  of  Peter  still  burned  in  his 
breast,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  and  the  chance 
of  retrieving  himself  at  the  last,  made  it  necessary  for 
him  to  put  his  pride  in  his  pocket  and  accept  the  inevi- 
table. 

"Ye'll  keep  yer  word,  Mister?"  he  inquired  of  Peter, 
after  a  moment.  "I  didn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  settin* 
them  woods  afire.  Ye'll  get  me  out  o'  this  scrape?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  shortly.    "I  will." 

But  he  watched  him  nevertheless. 

The  ex-soldier  drove  the  car  at  a  furious  pace  over  the 
rough  road,  rejoicing  in  the  open  cut-out  and  the  rush 
of  the  wind  past  his  ears.  He  had  been,  for  a  time,  a 
chauffeur  of  a  staff  car  on  the  other  side,  and  the  present 
conditions  were  full  of  promise  of  the  kind  of  excitement 
336 


THE  INFERNO 


that  appealed  to  his  youthful  spirit.  Shad  shouted  in- 
structions over  his  shoulder  but  Brierly  only  nodded  and 
sent  the  car  on  over  the  corduroy  to  which  they  had  come, 
with  the  throttle  wide.  Night  had  nearly  fallen  but  the 
road  was  a  crimson  track  picked  out  with  long  pencilings 
of  shadow.  The  wind  was  still  tossing  the  tree  tops  and 
leaves  and  twigs  cut  sharply  across  their  faces.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  danger  to  the  whole  of  the  Lower 
Reserve  unless  the  wind  fell — a  "crown"  fire  after  two 
weeks  of  drought  was  not  a  subject  for  jest. 

But  Peter  was  not  thinking  of  the  damage  to  McGuire's 
property.  He  roared  questions  eagerly  at  Wells  as  to 
the  location  of  the  cabin  with  reference  to  the  probable 
course  of  the  flames.  The  man  only  shook  his  head  du- 
biously, but  it  was  plain  that  he  was  considering  that  dan- 
ger. As  they  neared  the  fire  they  could  see  the  flames 
clearly  now,  beyond  the  pines  just  before  them,  which  were 
etched  in  deeply  bitten  lines,  every  quivering  frond  in 
silhouette  against  the  glare. 

As  the  car  neared  the  "Forks,"  Shad  directed  Brierly 
to  take  the  turn  to  the  left — away  from  the  main  road 
to  camp,  and  they  swung  into  a  sandy  road,  the  wind  at 
their  backs,  their  way  for  a  time  almost  parallel  to  the 
course  of  the  flames.  They  passed  the  small  settlement 
of  the  "Forks,"  the  few  denizens  of  which  were  standing 
beside  the  road,  their  few  household  goods  packed  in  bar- 
rows and  carts,  undecided  whether  or  not  the  red  terror 
would  come  their  way.  The  flames  were  clearly  visible 
now,  leaping  skyward  like  devils  freed  from  Hell,  and  so 
hot  was  the  fire  and  so  high  the  wind  that  whole  branches 
were  carried  high  into  the  air  and  flaming  fell  beyond 
into  the  cool  dark  to  kindle  new  destruction.  Anything 
that  lay  to  leeward  of  the  holocaust  was  doomed.  Peter 
furiously  questioned  Wells  again,  but  he  only  shook  his 
head  while  he  anxiously  watched  the  flames  as  the  road 
337 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


converged  toward  them.  But  as  the  road  swung  to  the 
left  Shad  shouted  and  held  up  his  hand  and  Brierly 
brought  the  car  to  a  stop. 

"This  is  the  nearest  point,  I  guess,  Mister.  From  here 
on  to  Cranberry  town  the  road  runs  to  the  left  of  Cedar 
Swamp." 

"Where's  the  cabin?"  queried  Peter  anxiously. 

"In  yonder,  not  far  from  the  edge  of  the  swamp,"  Shad 
replied  with  a  frown.  "Looks  like  the  fire's  pretty  near 
there." 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Peter  quickly.  "Brierly,  you  go 
back  to  Black  Rock  and  bring  the  men  here.  Follow  in. 
We'll  be  on  the  lookout  for  you." 

And  leaving  Brierly  to  turn  the  car,  he  started  off  with 
Shad  Wells  into  the  underbrush.  His  heart  sank  as  he 
saw  how  furiously  the  fire  was  raging  and  how  near  it 
seemed  to  be.  But  Shad  needed  no  urging  now  and  led 
the  way  with  a  long  stride,  Peter  following  closely.  The 
woods  were  not  so  heavy  here  and  the  forest  was  now  as 
bright  as  at  midday,  and  so  they  made  rapid  progress, 
coming  out  at  the  end  of  some  minutes  at  the  edge  of  the 
swamp,  whose  burnished  pools  sullenly  reflected  the  fiery 
heavens.  There  they  found  a  path  and  proceeded  more 
quickly.  To  Peter's  anxious  questions  Shad  shook  his 
head  and  only  peered  before  him,  forgetting  his  own  suf- 
fering in  the  dreadful  danger  to  which  the  girl  they  sought 
might  be  subjected.  A  terrible  thought  had  come  into 
Peter's  mind  in  the  last  few  moments — that  it  was  Hawk 
Kennedy  who  had  set  fire  to  the  woods  after  imprisoning 
Beth  in  a  cabin  in  the  path  of  the  flames.  This  was  his 
vengeance,  terrible  in  its  simplicity — for  a  lighted  match 
in  the  dry  leaves  would  do  the  trick,  and  incendiarism  in 
the  woods  was  difficult  to  trace.  A  vengeance  fatal  in  its 
effectiveness,  for  such  a  fire  would  tell  no  tales.  Peter 
found  himself  hoping  that  it  was  not  to  the  old  tool  cabin 
338 


THE  INFERNO 


that  Beth  had  been  taken — that  she  was  even  far  away 
from  this  inferno  that  lay  before  him.  The  glare  was 
already  hot  on  his  face  and  stray  breezes  which  blew  to- 
ward him  from  time  to  time  showed  that  the  wind  might 
be  veering  to  the  eastward,  in  which  case  all  the  woods 
which  they  now  traversed  would  soon  be  afire. 

But  to  the  credit  of  Shad  Wells  it  may  be  said  that 
he  did  not  hesitate,  for  when  he  reached  a  point  in  the 
path  where  it  turned  closely  along  the  edge  of  the  swamp, 
he  plunged  boldly  into  the  woods,  directly  toward  the 
flames,  and  Peter,  even  more  eager  than  he,  ran  ahead, 
peering  to  right  and  left  for  signs  of  the  cabin  which  now 
could  not  be  far  away.  The  roar  and  the  crackling  were 
now  ominously  near  and  the  flames  seemed  to  be  all  about 
them,  while  the  tree  tops  seemed  to  be  filled  with  flaming 
brands.  Sparks  and  live  cinders  fell  upon  them  and  the 
hot  breath  of  the  wind  blistered  them  with  its  heat. 

Suddenly  the  panting  Shad  grasped  Peter  sharply  by 
the  arm  with  his  uninjured  hand. 

"The  cabin!  My  God!  It's  burning  now Quick, 

Mister— or " 

Peter  sprang  forward  through  the  flaming  leaves.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  the  very  midst  of  the  flames.  Blinded  and 
suffocated  by  the  smoke,  Peter  plunged  forward  and 
reached  the  cabin.  One  end  and  side  of  it  was  blazing 
furiously  but  he  dashed  around  the  lower  end  of  it,  seek- 
ing the  door.  It  was  open  and  already  aflame.  The  hut 
was  empty.  He  ran  out  again,  blinded  by  the  smoke  and 
the  glare.  Was  it  a  fool's  errand?  And  had  he  and  Shad 
only  entrapped  themselves  to  no  good  end?  To  the  right 
of  him  the  fire  roared  and  with  his  back  to  the  glare  his 
eyes  eagerly  sought  the  shadows  down  the  wind.  Vague 
shapes  of  gnarled  branches  and  pallid  tree  trunks,  spectral 
bushes  quivering  before  the  advancing  demon,  some  of  them 
already  alight.  Safety  lay  only  in  this  one  direction — for 
339 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Beth,  if  she  had  been  there,  for  Shad Peter  sud- 
denly remembered  the  lumberman  and  turned  to  his  left 
to  look,  when  suddenly  he  espied  a  figure  moving  away 
from  him  and  ran  after  it,  calling.  He  realized  immediate- 
ly that  his  hoarse  cry  was  lost  in  the  inferno  of  the  flames, 
but  he  ran  more  rapidly,  beating  out  the  embers  which  had 
ignited  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt. 

He  saw  the  figure  clearly  now,  but  it  was  not  Shad — 
for  Shad  had  been  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  This  figure  wore 
a  coat  and  stumbled  away  half  bent,  one  arm  over  its 
head,  pushing  something — some  one  ahead  of  it.  Peter 
drew  his  revolver,  leaping  the  burning  leaves  and  calling 
aloud. 

He  saw  the  figures  ahead  of  him  halt  and  turn  as  they 
heard  his  voice  and  the  glare  behind  him  shone  full  upon 
them,  the  face  of  the  man  agape  with  inflamed  surprise — 
Hawk  Kennedy's,  and  the  other,  wide-eyed  as  at  the  sight 
of  an  apparition — Beth's. 

Only  thirty  paces  separated  them  when  Hawk  Kennedy 
fired.  Peter  heard  Beth's  scream  and  saw  her  strike  at 
the  man's  arm,  but  furiously  he  swung  her  in  front  of 
him  and  fired  again.  But  her  struggles  and  the  uncertain 
light  sent  the  bullet  wide.  Peter  did  not  dare  to  shoot  for 
the  man  was  using  her  as  a  shield,  but  he  did  not  hesitate 
and  ran  in,  trusting  to  luck  and  Beth's  struggles.  One 
bullet  struck  him  somewhere  as  Beth  seemed  to  stumble 
and  crumple  to  the  ground,  but  he  went  on  unspent  and 
catapulted  into  his  man  with  a  rush  that  sent  them  both 
sprawling  into  the  smoldering  foliage.  Blinded  by  the 
smoke,  but  mad  with  fury,  Peter  struck  and  clutched, 
and  Hawk's  last  shot  went  upward  for  Peter  wrenched  his 
wrist  and  then  struck  him  full  on  the  head  with  his  own 
weapon. 

He  felt  the  man  relax  and  slip  down  into  the  dust  and 
smoke,  where  he  lay  motionless. 
340 


THE  INFERNO 


Peter  drew  himself  up  to  arm's  length,  wondering  at 
the  feebleness  of  his  muscles  and  the  trouble  with  his 
breathing. 

"Beth!"  he  gasped,  frantically,  searching  the  smoking 
ground  for  her. 

"Peter — thank  God!"  Her  voice  was  just  at  his  ear 
and  an  arm  went  around  his  neck. 

"Beth!    Beth!    You've  got  to  get  out  of  this." 

"Come,  Peter— there's  time " 

Just  then  a  branch  crashed  down  just  beside  them, 
showering  them  with  sparks. 

"Come,  Peter — come !"  she  cried. 

He  struggled  up  with  an  effort,  one  hand  clutching  at 
his  breast. 

"Go,  Beth !"  he  gasped.    "For  God's  sake,  go !" 

Beth  stared  at  him  for  one  short  terrible  moment  as 
she  realized  what  had  happened  to  him. 

"Peter!    You— you're " 

"I— I  think  I'm  hurt— a  little— it  isn't  much." 

He  swayed  but  she  caught  him  and  put  an  arm  around 
one  shoulder,  clutching  it  with  the  other  hand. 

"Lean  on  me,"  she  muttered.    "I'm  strong  enough " 

"No— go,  Beth " 

But  she  put  her  strength  under  him  and  began  walking 
while  he  staggered  on  beside  her.  Sparks  and  fiery  brands 
rained  down  upon  them,  blistering  and  burning,  the  hot 
breath  of  the  furnace  drove  their  breath  poisoned  back 
into  their  lungs  and  scorched  their  bodies,  but  still  they 
remained  upright — and  by  a  miracle  still  moved  on. 

"To  the  left,"  Peter  heard  dimly,  "the  swamp  is  close 

by." 

He  obeyed  her,  more  dead  than  alive,  and  by  sheer  effort 
of  will  kept  his  feet  moving,  paced  to  hers.    He  seemed  to 
be  walking  as  though  in  a  red  fever,  on  leaden  feet,  carry- 
ing a  body  that  had  no  weight  or  substance. 
341 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


But  after  a  while  his  feet  too  seemed  to  grow  lighter 
and  he  felt  himself  falling  through  space.  But  her  arms 
were  still  about  him. 

"Peter,"  he  heard  her  voice  in  agony,  "only  a  few  yards 
further " 

With  a  last  remaining  effort  he  struggled  and  then  his 
feet  stumbling,  toppled  forward  and  sank  into  something 
soft,  something  deliciously  cool  and  soothing.  He  felt  a 
hand  tugging  at  him,  but  he  had  no  pain  now,  no  weak- 
ness— only  the  perfect  happiness  of  a  body  that,  seeking 
rest,  has  found  it. 

After  a  while  he  revived  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  at  his 
ear.  Water  was  splashing  over  his  face  and  he  struggled  up. 

"No — keep  down,"  he  heard  Beth's  voice  saying.  "We're 
safe,  Peter — the  wind  is  changing " 

"And  you,  Beth ?" 

"All  right,  dear.    A  little  patience " 

The  voice  trembled,  but  there  was  a  world  of  faith  in 
it.  After  all  that  had  happened,  it  was  impossible  that 
further  disaster  should  follow  now. 

"Y-you're  all  right?"  he  gasped  weakly. 

"Yes.     Yes.     Lie  still  for  a  while." 

And  so  they  half  lay,  half  crouched  in  the  mud  and 
water,  while  the  inferno  swept  over  them,  passing  to  the 
south.  His  head  was  on  her  breast  and  against  his  ear 
he  could  feel  her  heart  beating  bravely,  a  message  of 
strength  and  cheer.  From  time  to  time  her  wet  fingers 
brushed  his  hair  with  water  and  then,  as  he  seemed  to  be 
sinking  into  a  dream  again,  he  felt  lips  light  as  thistle- 
down upon  his  brows. 

Death  such  as  this,  he  thought,  was  very  pleasant. 

And  then  later  he  was  aroused  by  a  shrill  clear  call. 
.  .  .  Then  saw  lights  flashing.  .  .  .  Heard  men's  voices. 
.  .  .  Felt  himself  carried  in  strong  arms  .  .  .  but  all  the 
while  there  were  soft  fingers  in  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
RETRIBUTION 

WHEN  they  lifted  him  into  the  automobile  and  Beth 
got  in  beside  him,  his  fingers  moved  in  her  own. 
"Beth,"  she  heard  him  whisper. 
"Peter— I'm  here." 
"Thank  God.    And— and  Shad ?    He— he  was  with 

"He's  asking  for  Shad,"  she  repeated  to  Brierly,  un- 
aware that  her  cousin,  like  his  Biblical  namesake,  had 
come  scatheless  through  the  fiery  furnace.  But  some  one 
heard  the  question  and  replied: 

"Shad's  here,  Miss.    He's  all  right " 

"Oh,"  gasped  Peter.    "And  there's  something  else " 

"No,  no — we  must  go.    Your  wound " 

But  he  insisted.  "I-I'm  all — right.  Something  else, — 
Beth — some  one  must  get — paper — blue  envelope — Hawk 

Ken " 

His  words  ended  in  a  gasp  and  he  sank  back  in  her 
arms. 

Beth  was  frightened  at  the  sudden  collapse  and  the  look 
in  his  face,  but  she  knew  that  his  injunction  was  impor- 
tant. And  keeping  her  courage  she  called  Shad  Wells  to 
the  side  of  the  car  and  gave  quick  directions.  There  was 
a  note  of  appeal  in  her  voice  and  Shad  listened,  his  gaze 
over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  she  indicated. 

"If  he  ain't  burned  to  a  crisp  by  now " 

"Go,  Shad — please !    And  if  you  can  get  to  him  bring 
the  papers  in  his  pocket  to  me." 
343 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


He  met  her  gaze  and  smiled. 

"I  reckon  I'll  get  to  him  if  anybody  can." 

"Oh,  thanks,  Shad — thanks "  she  muttered,  as  the 

lumberman  turned,  followed  by  one  of  the  others,  and 
silently  moved  toward  the  flames. 

And  in  a  moment  the  car  was  on  its  way  to  Black  Rock, 
Brierly  driving  carefully  over  the  rough  road.  That  was 
a  terrible  ride  for  Beth.  She  supported  the  wounded  man 
against  her  shoulder,  her  gaze  on  his  pallid  face.  Her 
poor  blistered  arm  was  about  his  waist,  but  she  had  no 
thought  for  her  own  suffering.  Every  ounce  of  strength 
that  remained  to  her  was  given  to  holding  Peter  close  to 
her  so  that  he  would  not  slip  down,  every  ounce  of  faith 
in  her  soul  given  to  combat  with  the  fears  that  assailed 
her.  It  seemed  to  Beth  that  if  the  Faith  that  had  brought 
her  through  this  day  and  out  of  that  furnace  were  still 
strong  enough  she  could  combat  even  the  Death  that  rode 
with  them.  And  so  she  prayed  again,  holding  him  closely. 
But  he  was  so  cold  and  inert.  She  put  her  hand  over  his 
heart  and  a  tiny  pulsation  answered  as  though  to  reassure 
her.  Her  hand  came  away  dry,  for  the  wound  was  not 
near  his  heart.  She  thanked  God  for  that.  She  found 
it  high  up  on  the  right  side  just  below  the  collar  bone  and 
held  her  fingers  there,  pressing  them  tightly.  If  this  blood 
were  life  and  she  could  keep  it  within  him  she  would  do 
it.  But  he  was  so  pale.  .  .  . 

Brierly  drove  to  Black  Rock  House  instinctively.  Here 
were  beds,  servants  and  the  telephone.  He  sounded  his 
horn  as  they  came  up  the  driveway  and  an  excited  group 
came  out  upon  the  porch.  But  Beth  saw  only  McGuire. 

"Mr.  Nichols  has  been  shot,  Mr.  McGuire — he's  dan- 
gerously hurt,"  she  appealed.  "He's  got  to  have  a  doc- 
tor— at  once." 

"Who— who  shot  him?" 

"Hawk  Kennedy." 

344 


RETRIBUTION 


"And  he— Hawk ?" 

"He's  dead,  I  think." 

She  heard  McGuire's  sudden  gasp  and  saw  Aunt  Tillie 
come  running. 

"He's  got  to  be  put  to  bed— Aunt  Tillie,"  she  pleaded. 

"Of  course,"  said  McGuire,  finding  his  voice  suddenly, 
"Of  course — at  once.  The  blue  room,  Mrs.  Bergen.  We'll 
carry  him  up.  Send  Stryker." 

And  Aunt  Tillie  ran  indoors. 

Peter  was  still  quite  unconscious,  but  between  them 
they  managed  to  get  him  upstairs. 

McGuire  seemed  now  galvanized  into  activity  and  while 
the  others  cut  Peter's  coat  away  and  found  the  wound 
he  got  Hammonton  and  a  doctor  on  the  'phone.  It  was 
twelve  miles  away  but  he  promised  to  be  at  Black  Rock 
House  inside  half  an  hour. 

"Twenty  minutes  and  you  won't  regret  it.  Drive  like 
Hell.  It's  a  matter  of  life  or  death." 

Meanwhile,  Aunt  Tillie,  with  anxious  glances  at  Beth, 
had  brought  absorbent  cotton,  clean  linen,  a  basin  of 
water  and  a  sponge,  and  Stryker  and  Brierly  washed  the 
wound,  while  McGuire  rushed  for  his  bottle  and  managed 
to  force  some  whisky  and  water  between  Peter's  teeth. 
The  bullet  they  found  had  gone  through  the  body  and  had 
come  out  at  the  back,  shattering  the  shoulder-blade.  But 
the  hemorrhage  had  almost  ceased  and  the  wounded  man's 
heart  was  still  beating  faintly. 

"It's  the  blood  he's  lost,"  muttered  Brierly  sagely. 

"He'll  come  around  all  right.  You  can't  kill  a  man 
as  game  as  that." 

Beth  clung  to  the  arms  of  the  chair  in  which  they  had 
placed  her.  "You  think— he— he'll  live  ?" 

"Sure  he  will.    I've  seen  'em  worse'n  that " 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  exhausted.  She  had 
never  fainted  in  her  life  and  she  wasn't  going  to  begin. 
345 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


But  now  that  all  that  they  could  do  had  been  done  for 
Peter,  they  turned  their  attention  to  Beth.  She  had  not 
known  how  much  she  needed  it.  Her  hair  was  singed,  her 
wrists  were  raw  and  bleeding,  and  her  arms,  half  naked, 
were  red  and  blistered.  Her  dress,  soaked  with  mud  and 
water,  was  partly  torn  or  burned  away. 

"She  must  be  put  to  bed  here,  Mrs.  Bergen,"  said  Mc- 
Guire.  "She'll  need  the  doctor  too." 

Beth  protested  and  would  not  leave  the  room  until  the 
doctor  came.  But  McGuire,  who  seemed — and  somewhat 
justly — to  have  complete  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  his  own 
remedy,  gave  her  some  of  the  whisky  and  water  to  drink, 
while  Aunt  Tillie  washed  her  face  and  rubbed  vaseline 
upon  her  arms,  crooning  over  her  all  the  while  in  the  com- 
forting way  of  women  of  her  kind,  to  the  end  that  Beth 
felt  the  pain  of  her  body  lessen. 

It  was  not  until  the  doctor  arrived  with  a  businesslike 
air  and  made  his  examination,  pronouncing  Peter's  con- 
dition serious  but  not  necessarily  fatal,  that  the  tension 
at  Beth's  heart  relaxed. 

"He— he'll  get  well,  Doctor?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"I  think  so,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "but  we've  got  to 
have  absolute  quiet  now.  I'd  like  some  one  here  to  help 

"If  you'd  only  let  me " 

But  she  read  refusal  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her 
critically,  and  saw  him  choose  Stryker. 

"You're  to  be  put  to  bed  at  once,"  he  said  dryly. 
"You'll  need  attention  too,  I'm  thinking." 

And  so  Beth,  with  McGuire's  arm  supporting  and  Aunt 
Tillie's  arm  around  her,  was  led  to  the  room  adjoining, — 
the  pink  room  of  Miss  Peggy  McGuire.  McGuire  closed 
the  door  and  questioned  her  eagerly. 

"You  say  Hawk  Kennedy  was  killed ?" 

"I  think  so — or — or  burned,"  said  Beth,  now  quivering 
346 


RETRIBUTION 


in  the  reaction  of  all  that  she  had  experienced.  "I — I 
sent  Shad  Wells  to  see.  We  left  him  lying  there.  We  just 
had  time  to  get  away.  The  fire  was  all  around.  We  got 

to  the  swamp — into  the  water — but  he "  She  put 

her  face  into  her  hands,  trembling  with  the  recollection. 
"It  was  horrible.  I  can't  talk  about  it." 

Aunt  Tillie  glared  at  McGuire,  but  he  still  questioned 
uneasily. 

"You — you  saw  nothing  of  a  blue  envelope,  a 
Paper " 

With  an  effort  Beth  lowered  her  hands  and  replied : 

"No— Peter— Mr.  Nichols  thought  of  it.  Shad  Wells 
will  bring  it — if  it  isn't  burned." 

«0h,  I  see " 

"But  what  you  can't  see,"  broke  in  Aunt  Tillie  with 
spirit,  "is  that  the  poor  child  ain't  fit  to  answer  any  more 
questions  to-night.  And  she  shan't." 

"Er — no — of  course,"  said  McGuire,  and  went  out. 

If  it  had  been  an  eventful  day  for  Peter  and  Beth,  the 
night  was  to  prove  eventful  for  McGuire,  for  not  content 
to  wait  the  arrival  of  Shad  Wells,  he  took  his  courage  in 
his  hands  and  with  Brierly  drove  at  once  to  the  scene  of 
the  disaster.  The  wind  had  died  and  a  gentle  rain  began 
to  fall,  but  the  fire  was  burning  fiercely. 

The  other  matter  in  McGuire's  thoughts  was  so  much 
the  more  important  to  him  that  he  had  given  little  thought 
to  the  damage  to  his  property.  His  forests  might  all 
be  burned  down  for  all  that  he  cared. 

At  the  spot  to  which  Beth  and  Peter  had  been  carried 
he  met  Shad  and  the  party  of  men  that  had  been  looking 
for  Hawk  Kennedy,  but  the  place  where  the  fight  had 
taken  place  was  still  a  mass  of  fallen  trees  and  branches 
all  flaming  hotly  and  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to 
get  within  several  hundred  yards  of  it. 

There  seemed  little  doubt  as  to  the  fate  of  his  enemy. 
347 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Jonathan  K.  McGuire  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  burned 
area,  peering  into  the  glowing  embers.  His  look  was  grim 
but  there  was  no  smile  of  triumph  at  his  lips.  In  his 
moments  of  madness  he  had  often  wished  Hawk  Kennedy 
dead,  but  never  had  he  wished  him  such  a  death  as  this. 
He  questioned  Shad  sharply  as  to  his  share  in  the  adven- 
ture, satisfying  himself  at  last  that  the  man  had  told  a 
true  story,  and  then,  noting  his  wounded  arm,  sent  him 
back  with  Brierly  in  the  car  to  Black  Rock  House  for 
medical  treatment  with  orders  to  send  the  chauffeur  with 
the  limousine. 

The  rain  was  now  falling  fast,  but  Jonathan  K.  McGuire 
did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  it.  His  gaze  was  on  the  forest, 
on  that  of  the  burning  area  nearest  him  where  the  fire  still 
flamed  the  hottest,  beneath  the  embers  of  which  lay  the 
one  dreadful  secret  of  his  life.  Even  where  he  stood  the 
heat  was  intense,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  it, 
nor  did  he  follow  the  others  when  they  retreated  to  a  more 
comfortable  spot.  No  one  knew  why  he  waited  or  of  what 
he  was  thinking,  unless  of  the  damage  to  the  Reserve  and 
what  the  loss  in  money  meant  to  him.  They  could  not 
guess  that  pity  and  fear  waged  their  war  in  his  heart — 
pity  that  any  man  should  die  such  a  death — fear  that  the 
man  he  thought  of  should  not  die  it. 

But  as  the  hours  lengthened  and  there  was  no  report 
brought  to  him  of  any  injured  man,  being  found  in  the 
forest  near  by,  he  seemed  to  know  that  Peter  Nichols  had 
not  struck  for  Beth  in  vain. 

When  the  limousine  came,  he  sent  the  other  watchers 
home,  and  got  into  it,  sitting  in  solitary  grandeur  in  his 
wet  clothing,  peering  out  of  the  window.  The  glow  of  the 
flames  grew  dimmer  and  died  at  last  with  the  first  pale 
light  to  the  eastward  which  announced  the  coming  of  the 
dawn.  A  light  drizzle  was  still  falling  when  it  grew  light 
enough  to  see.  McGuire  got  down  and  without  awakening 
348 


RETRIBUTION 


the  sleeping  chauffeur  went  forth  into  the  spectral  woods. 
He  knew  where  the  old  tool  cabin  had  stood  and,  from  the 
description  Wells  had  given  him,  had  gained  a  general 
idea  of  where  the  fight  had  taken  place — two  hundred 
yards  from  the  edge  of  the  swamp  where  Nichols  and  the 
Cameron  girl  had  been  found,  and  nearly  in  a  line  with  the 
biggest  of  the  swamp-maples,  the  trunk  of  which  still 
stood,  a  melancholy  skeleton  of  its  former  grandeur. 

The  ground  was  still  hot  under  the  mud  and  cinders, 
but  not  painfully  so,  and  he  was  not  aware  of  any  discom- 
fort. Clouds  of  steam  rose  and  among  them  he  moved  like 
the  ghost  of  a  sin,  bent,  eager,  searching  with  heavy  eyes 
for  what  he  hoped  and  what  he  feared  to  find.  The  old 
tool  house  had  disappeared,  but  he  saw  a  heap  of  ashes 
and  among  them  the  shapes  of  saws  and  iron  picks  and 
shovels.  But  he  passed  them  by,  making  a  straight  line 
to  the  eastward  and  keeping  his  gaze  upon  the  charred 
and  blackened  earth,  missing  nothing  to  right  and  left, 
fallen  branches,  heaps  of  rubbish,  mounds  of  earth. 

Suddenly  startled,  McGuire  halted  and  stood  for  a 
long  moment.  .  .  .  Then,  his  hand  before  his  eyes  he 
turned  away  and  slowly  made  his  way  back  to  his  auto- 
mobile. But  there  was  no  triumph  in  his  eyes.  A  power 
greater  than  his  own  had  avenged  Ben  Cameron. 

His  vigil  was  over — his  nightly  vigil — the  vigil  of  years. 
He  made  his  way  to  his  car  and,  awakening  his  chauffeur, 
told  him  to  drive  to  Black  Rock  House.  But  when  he 
reached  home,  the  set  look  that  his  face  had  worn  for 
so  many  weeks  had  disappeared.  And  in  its  place  among 
the  relaxed  muscles  which  showed  his  years,  sat  the  be- 
nignity of  a  new  resolution. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  he  quietly  knocked  at  the 

door  of  the  room  in  which  the  injured  man  lay.     The 

doctor  came  to  the  door.     It  seemed  that  all  immediate 

danger  of  a  further  collapse  had  passed  for  the  heart  was 

349 


THE  FAGRANT  DUKE 


stronger  and  unless  there  was  a  setback  Peter  Nichols 
had  an  excellent  chance  of  recovery.  McGuire  himself 
offered  to  watch  beside  the  bed ;  but  the  doctor  explained 
that  a  trained  nurse  was  already  on  the  way  from  Phila- 
delphia and  would  arrive  at  any  moment.  So  McGuire 
went  to  his  own  room  and,  sinking  into  his  armchair, 
slept  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks  at  peace,  smiling  his 
benignant  smile. 

******* 

Beth  awoke  in  the  pink  room  of  Miss  Peggy  McGuire  in 
which  she  had  been  put  to  bed.  She  lay  for  a  moment  still 
stupefied,  her  brain  struggling  against  the  effects  of  the 
sleeping  potion  that  the  doctor  had  given  her  and  then 
slowly  straightened  to  a  sitting  posture,  regarding  in 
bewilderment  the  embroidered  night-robe  which  she  wore 
and  the  flowered  pink  hangings  at  the  windows.  She 
couldn't  at  first  understand  the  pain  at  her  head  and  other 
aches  and  pains  which  seemed  to  come  mysteriously  into 
being.  But  she  heard  a  familiar  voice  at  her  ear  and  saw 
the  anxious  face  of  Aunt  Tillie,  who  rose  from  the  chair 
at  her  bedside. 

"Aunt  Tillie!"  she  whispered. 

"It's  all  right,  dearie,"  said  the  old  woman.  "You're 
to  lie  quite  still  until  the  doctor  sees  you " 

"The  doctor ?    Oh,  I — I  remember "    And  then 

with  a  sudden  awakening  to  full  consciousness — "Peter!" 
she  gasped. 

"He's  better,  dearie." 

"But  what  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"He's  doin'  as  well  as  possible " 

"Will  he  get  well?" 

"Yes,  yes.     The  doctor  is  very  hopeful." 

"You're  sure?" 

"Yes.  He's  sleepin*  now — quiet — ye'd  better  just  lie 
back  again." 

350 


RETRIBUTION 


"But  I  want  to  go  to  him,  Aunt  Tillie.    I  want  to." 

"No.     Ye  can't,  dearie — not  now." 

And  so  by  dint  of  reassurance  and  persuasion,  Aunt 
Tillie  prevailed  upon  the  girl  to  lie  back  upon  her  pil- 
lows and  after  a  while  she  slept  again. 

But  Beth  was  no  weakling  and  when  the  doctor  came 
into  her  room  some  time  later,  the  effects  of  her  potion 
wearing  away,  she  awoke  to  full  consciousness.  He  saw 
the  imploring  question  in  her  eyes,  before  he  took  her 
pulse  and  answered  it  with  a  quick  smile. 

"He's  all  right.     Heart  coming  on  nicely " 

"Will  h-he  live?"  she  gasped. 

"He'll  be  a  fool  if  he  doesn't." 

"What ?" 

"I'd  be,  if  I  knew  there  was  a  girl  like  you  in  the  next 
room  with  that  kind  of  look  in  her  eyes  asking  for  me." 

But  his  remark  went  over  Beth's  head. 

"He's  better?" 

"Yes.    Conscious  too.    But  he'll  have  to  be  kept  quiet." 

"D-did  he  speak  of  me?" 

The  doctor  was  taking  her  pulse  and  put  on  a  pro- 
fessional air  which  hid  his  inward  smiles  and  provoked  a 
repetition  of  her  question. 

"D-did  he?"  she  repeated  softly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "He  won't  talk  of 
anything  else.  I  had  to  give  him  a  hypodermic  to  make 
him  stop." 

Beth  was  silent  for  a  moment.    And  then  timidly 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  just  that  you  saved  his  life,  that's  all." 

"Nothing  else?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  he  did." 

"What?" 

"That  he  wanted  to  see  you." 
351 


THE  VAGEANT  DUKE 


"Oh!    And  can  I- 


The  doctor  snapped  his  watch  and  relinquished  her 
wrist  with  a  smile. 

"If  everything  goes  well — to-morrow — for  two  minutes 
— just  two  minutes,  you  understand." 

"Not  until  to-morrow?"  she  asked  ruefull}T. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  to  see  him  alive  at  all.  He  had 

a  narrow  shave  of  it.  An  inch  or  two  lower "  And 

then  with  a  smile,  "But  he's  going  to  get  well,  I  promise 
you  that." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  said  Beth  gratefully. 

"Don't  worry.  And  if  you  behave  yourself  I'll  let  you 
get  up  after  lunch."  He  gave  some  directions  to  Mrs. 
Bergen  as  to  the  treatment  of  Beth's  blistered  arms,  and 
went  out. 

So  in  spite  of  the  pain  that  she  still  suffered,  Beth  was 
content.  At  least  she  was  content  until  Aunt  Tillie 
brought  her  Miss  Peggy  McGuire's  silver  hand-mirror 
and  she  saw  the  reflection  of  her  once  beautiful  self. 

"Aunt  Tillie!"  she  gasped.    "I'm  a  sight." 

"Maybe — but  that's  a  sight  better  than  bein'  burned 
to  death,"  said  the  old  lady,  soberly. 

"My  hair !" 

"It's  only  frizzled.  They  say  that's  good  for  the  hair," 
she  said  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  well,"  sighed  Beth  as  she  laid  the  mirror  down 
beside  her.  "I  guess  I  ought  to  be  glad  I'm  alive 
after " 

And  then  with  an  uncontrollable  shudder,  she  asked, 
"And — and — him?" 

"Dead,"  said  Aunt  Tillie  with  unction.  "Burned  to  a 
crisp." 

Beth  gasped  but  said  nothing  more.  She  didn't  want 
to  think  of  yesterday,  but  she  couldn't  help  it — the  hor- 
rors that  she  had  passed  through — the  fate  that  might 
352 


RETRIBUTION 


have  been  in  store  for  her,  if — Peter  hadn't  found  her  in 
time! 

Beth  relaxed  in  comfort  while  Aunt  Tillie  bathed  and 
anointed  her,  brushed  out  the  hair  that  was  "frizzled," 
refreshing  and  restoring  her  patient,  so  that  after  lunch 
she  got  up  and  put  on  the  clothing  that  had  been  brought 
from  her  home.  Her  arms  were  swathed  in  bandages 
from  wrists  to  shoulders  but  the  pain  was  much  less,  so, 
when  McGuire  knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  if  he  might 
see  her,  she  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window  and 
greeted  him  with  a  smile. 

He  entered  timidly  and  awkwardly,  rubbing  his  fingers 
uncomfortably  against  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"They  tell  me  you're  feelin'  better,  Miss  Cameron,"  he 
said  soberly.  "I — I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  for  a  moment," 
and  with  a  glance  at  Aunt  Tillie,  "alone  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Aunt  Tillie  gathered  up  some  bandages  and  grudgingly 
departed. 

McGuire  came  forward  slowly  and  sank  into  a  chair 
beside  Beth's,  laying  his  hand  timidly  on  hers. 

"I  thank  God  nothing  happened  to  you,  child,  and  I 
hope  you  believe  me  when  I  say  it,"  he  began  in  an  un- 
certain voice. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  do." 

"Because  the  only  thing  that  matters  to  me  now  is 
setting  myself  straight  with  you  and  Mr.  Nichols." 

He  paused  in  a  difficulty  of  speech  and  then  went  on. 

"He— Mr.  Nichols  has  told  you  everything ?" 

Beth  wagged  her  head  like  a  solemn  child  and  then  laid 
her  other  hand  on  his. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  said. 

"You  musn't  say  that,"  he  muttered.  "I — I've  done 
you  a  great  wrong — not  trying  to  find  out  about  Ben 
Cameron — not  trying  to  find  you.  But  I've  suffered  for 
353 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


it,  Miss "  And  then  eagerly "You  don't  mind 

my  calling  you  Beth,  do  you?'* 

"No,  Mr.  McGuire." 

"I  ought  to  have  told  what  happened.  I  ought  to  have 
tried  to  find  out  if  Ben  Cameron  had  any  kin.  I  did 
wrong.  But  I've  paid  for  it.  I've  never  had  a  happy 
hour  since  I  claimed  that  mine  that  didn't  belong  to  me. 
I've  made  a  lot  of  money  but  what  I  did  has  been  hanging 
over  me  for  years  making  an  old  man  of  me  before  my 
time " 

"Oh,  please  don't  be  unhappy  any  more " 

"Let  me  talk  Miss — Beth.  I've  got  to  tell  you.  It'll 
make  me  feel  a  lot  easier."  Beth  smoothed  his  hand  re- 
assuringly and  he  clasped  hers  eagerly  as  though  in 
gratitude.  "I  never  was  much  good  when  I  was  a  lad, 
Beth,  and  I  never  could  get  along  even  after  I  got  mar- 
ried. It  wasn't  in  me  somehow.  I  was  pretty  straight 
as  young  fellows  go  but  nothing  went  right  for  me.  I 
was  a  failure.  And  then " 

He  paused  a  moment  with  bent  head  but  Beth  didn't 
speak.  It  was  all  very  painful  to  her. 

"Hawk  Kennedy  killed  your  father.  But  I  was  a  crook 
too.  I  left  Hawk  there  without  water  to  die.  It  was  a 
horrible  thing  to  do — even  after  what  he'd  done  to  me. 
My  God!  Maybe  I  didn't  suffer  for  that!  I  was  glad 
when  I  learned  Hawk  didn't  die,  even  though  I  knew  from 
that  time  that  he'd  be  hanging  over  me  like  a  curse.  He 
did  for  years  and  years.  I  knew  he'd  turn  up  some  day. 
I  tried  to  forget,  but  I  couldn't.  The  sight  of  him  was 
always  with  me." 

"How  terrible!"  whispered  Beth. 

"But  from  that  moment  everything  I  did  went  well. 

Money  came  fast.    I  wasn't  a  bad  business  man,  but  even 

a  bad  business  man  could  have  put  that  deal  through. 

I  sold  out  the  mine.    I've  got  the  figures  and  I'm  going  to 

354 


RETRIBUTION 


show  them  to  you,  because  they're  yours  to  see.  With  the 
money  I  made  some  good  investments.  That  money  made 
more  money  and  more  besides.  Making  money  got  to  be 
my  passion.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  cared  for — except 
my  girls — and  it  was  the  only  thing  that  made  me  forget." 

"Please  don't  think  you've  got  to  tell  me  any  more." 

"Yes,  I  want  to.  I  don't  know  how  much  I'm  worth 
to-day."  And  then  in  a  confidential  whisper — "I  couldn't 
tell  within  half  a  million  or  so,  but  I  guess  it  ain't  far 
short  of  ten  millions,  Beth.  You're  the  only  person  in 
the  world  outside  the  Treasury  Department  that  knows 
how  much  I'm  worth.  I'm  telling  you.  I've  never  told 
anybody — not  even  Peggy.  And  the  reason  I'm  telling 
you  is  because,  you've  got  to  know,  because  I  can't  sleep 
sound  yet,  until  I  straighten  this  thing  out  with  you.  It 
didn't  take  much  persuading  for  Mr.  Nichols  to  show  me 
what  I  had  to  do  when  he'd  found  out,  because  everything 
I've  got  comes  from  money  I  took  from  you.  And  I'm 
going  to  give  you  what  belongs  to  you,  the  full  amount  I 
got  for  that  mine  with  interest  to  date.  It's  not  mine. 
Its  yours  and  you're  a  rich  girl,  Beth " 

"I  won't  know  what  to  do  with  all  that  money,  Mr.  Mc- 
Guire,"  said  Beth  in  an  awed  voice. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  I've  been  thinking  it  all  out.  It's  a 
deed  by  gift.  We'll  have  to  have  a  consideration  to  make 
it  binding.  We  may  have  to  put  in  the  facts  that  I've 
been — er — only  a  sort  of  trustee  of  the  proceeds  of  the 
'Tarantula'  mine.  I've  got  a  good  lawyer.  He'll  know 
what  to  do — how  to  fix  it." 

"I — I'm  sure  I'm  very  grateful." 

"You  needn't  be."  He  paused  and  laid  his  hand  over 
hers  again.  "But  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'd  rather 
not  have  much  talk  about  it — just  what's  said  in  the 
deed — to  explain." 

"I'll  say  nothin'  you  don't  want  said." 
355 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


"I  knew  you  wouldn't.  Until  the  papers  are  drawn 
I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  speak  of  it.'* 

«I  won't." 

"You're  a  good  girl.  I — I'd  like  to  see  you  happy.  If 
money  will  make  you  happy,  I'm  glad  I  can  help." 

"You've  been  very  kind,  Mr.  McGuire — and  generous. 
I  can't  seem  to  think  about  all  that  money.  It's  just  like 
a  fairy  tale." 

"And  you  forgive  me — for  what  I  did ?  You  for- 
give me,  Beth?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Mr.  McGuire.  Don't  say  anythin'  more 
about  it — please !" 

The  old  man  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  hand  and 
then  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief  straightened  and  rose. 

"Thank  God !"  he  said  quietly.  And  bidding  her  good- 
by  he  walked  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
A  VISITOR 

THE  two  minutes  permitted  by  the  doctor  had  come 
and  gone.  There  had  been  much  to  say  with  too 
little  time  to  say  it  in.  For  Beth,  admonished  that 
the  patient  must  be  kept  quiet,  and  torn  between  joy  at 
Peter's  promised  recovery  and  pity  for  his  pale  face,  could 
only  look  at  him  and  murmur  soothing  phrases,  while 
Peter  merely  smiled  and  held  her  hand.  But  that,  it 
seemed,  was  enough,  for  Beth  read  in  his  eyes  that  what 
had  happened  had  merely  set  an  enduring  seal  upon  the 
affection  of  both  of  them. 

With  the  promise  that  she  could  see  him  again  on  the 
morrow,  Beth  went  back  to  her  room.  She  had  wanted 
to  return  to  the  village,  but  McGuire  had  insisted  upon 
her  staying  where  she  was  under  the  care  of  the  doctor 
until  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  the  shock  to  her  sys- 
tem had  yielded  to  medical  treatment.  Beth  said  nothing. 
She  was  already  herself  and  quite  able  to  take  up  her  life 
just  where  she  had  left  it,  but  she  agreed  to  stay  in  Mc- 
Guire's  house.  It  seemed  to  make  him  happier  when  she 
acquiesced  in  his  wishes.  Besides,  it  was  nice  to  be  waited 
on  and  to  be  next  to  the  room  where  the  convalescent  was. 

But  the  revelation  as  to  Peter's  identity  could  not  be 
long  delayed.  Brierly  had  brought  the  tale  back  from  the 
lumber  camp,  and  the  village  was  all  agog  with  excitement. 
But  Beth  had  seen  no  one  but  Mr.  McGuire  and  Aunt 
Tillie,  and  Peter  had  requested  that  no  one  should  tell 
her  but  himself.  And  so  in  a  day  or  so  when  Beth  went 
357 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


into  Peter's  room  she  found  him  with  a  color  in  his  cheeks, 
and  wearing  a  quizzical  smile. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,  Beth,"  he  said. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  they'd  let  me,  Peter.  Do  you  feel 
stronger?" 

"Every  hour.    Better  when  you're  here.    And  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right." 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  stand  hearing  something  very 
terrible  about  me,  Beth?" 

She  glanced  at  him  anxiously  and  then  a  smile  of  per- 
fect faith  responded  to  his.  She  knew  that  he  was  get- 
ting well  now,  because  this  was  a  touch  of  his  old  humor. 

"H-m.  I  guess  so.  I  don't  believe  it  can  be  so  very 
terrible,  Peter." 

"It  is— very  terrible,  Beth." 

But  the  pressure  of  his  fingers  was  reassuring. 

"I'm  listenin',"  she  said. 

"Well,  you  know,  you  told  me  once  that  you'd  marry 
me  no  matter  what  I'd  been " 

"Yes.  I  meant  that,  Peter.  I  mean  it  now.  It's  what 
you  are " 

Peter  Nichols  chuckled.  It  was  his  last  chuckle  as 
Peter  Nichols. 

"Well,  I'm  not  what  you  thought  I  was.  I've  been  act- 
ing under  false  colors — under  false  pretenses.  My  name 
isn't  Peter  Nichols.  It's  Peter  Nicholaevitch " 

"Then  you  are  all  Russian !"  she  said. 

Peter  shook  his  head. 

"No.  Only  half  of  me.  But  I  used  to  live  in  Russia — 
at  a  place  called  Zukovo.  The  thing  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
was  that  they  fired  me  out  because  they  didn't  want  me 
there." 

"You !    How  dared  they !    I'd  like  to  give  them  a  piece 
of  my  mind,"  said  Beth  indignantly. 
358 


A  VISITOR 


"It  wouldn't  have  done  any  good.    I  tried  to  do  that." 

"And  wouldn't  they  listen?" 

"No.  They  burned  my — my  house  and  tried  to  shoot 
me." 

"Oh !  How  could  they !"  And  then,  gently,  "Oh,  Peter. 
You  have  had  troubles,  haven't  you  ?" 

"I  don't  mind.  If  I  hadn't  had  them,  I  wouldn't  have 
come  here  and  I  wouldn't  have  found  you" 

"So  after  all,  I  ought  to  be  glad  they  did  fire  you  out," 
she  said  gently. 

"But   ar)en't   you   curious   to   know   why  they   did?" 

"I  am,  if  you  want  to  tell  me,  but  even  if  it  was  bad, 
I  don't  care  what  you  did,  Peter." 

He  took  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

"It  wasn't  so  very  bad  after  all,  Beth.  It  wasn't  so 
much  what  I  did  as  what  my — er — my  family  had  done 
that  made  them  angry." 

"Well,  you  weren't  responsible  for  what  your  kin-folks 
did." 

Peter  laughed  softly. 

"They  seemed  to  think  so.  My — er — my  kin-folks  were 
mixed  up  in  politics  in  Russia  and  one  of  my  cousins  had 
a  pretty  big  job — too  big  a  job  for  him  and  that's  the 
truth."  A  cloud  passed  for  a  moment  over  Peter's  face 
and  he  looked  away. 

"But  what  did  his  job  have  to  do  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  you  see,  we  were  all  mixed  up  with  him,  just  by 
being  related — at  least  that's  what  the  people  thought. 
And  so  when  my  cousin  did  a  lot  of  things  the  people 
thought  he  oughtn't  to  do  and  didn't  do  a  lot  of  other 
things  that  they  thought  he  ought  to  have  done,  they  be- 
lieved that  I  was  just  the  same  sort  of  man  that  he  was." 

"How  unjust,  Peter !" 

He  smiled  at  the  ceiling. 

"I  thought  so.  I  told  them  what  I  thought.  I  did 
359 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


what  I  could  to  straighten  things  out  and  to  help  them, 
but  they  wouldn't  listen.  Instead  they  burned  ray — my 
house  down  and  I  had  to  run  away." 

"How  terrible  for  you!"  And  then,  after  a  pause, 
"Was  it  a  pretty  house,  Peter?" 

*Yes,"  he  replied  slowly,  "it  was.  A  very  pretty  house 
— in  the  midst  of  a  forest,  with  great  pines  all  about  it. 
I  wish  they  hadn't  burned  that  house,  Beth,  because  I 
loved  it." 

"Poor  dear !    I'm  so  sorry." 

"I  thought  you  would  be,  because  it  was  a  big  house, 
with  pictures,  books,  music " 

"All  burned !    Land's  sakes  alive !" 

"And  a  wonderful  grand  piano." 

"Oh,  Peter !"  And  then  with  a  flash  of  joy,  "But  you're 
go  in'  to  have  another  grand  piano  just  like  it  soon." 

"Am  I?    Who's  going  to  give  it  to  me?" 

"/  am,"  said  Beth  quietly.  "And  another  house  and 
pictures  and  books  and  music." 

He  read  her  expression  eagerly. 

"Mr.  McGuire  has  told  you  ?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.     "You  knew?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied.     "He  told  me  yesterday." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?"  she  whispered.  And  then  went 
on  rapidly,  "So  you  see,  Peter,  maybe  I  can  be  some  good 
to  you  after  all." 

He  pressed  her  fingers,  enjoying  her  happiness. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it's  true,"  she  gasped,  "but  it 
must  be,  because  Mr.  McGuire  had  his  lawyer  here  yes- 
terday talkin'  about  it " 

"Yes.  It's  true.  I  think  he's  pretty  happy  to  get  all 
that  off  his  conscience.  You're  a  rich  girl,  Beth."  And 
then,  with  a  slow  smile,  "That  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  about  who  /  was.  You  see,  I 
thought  that  now  that  you're  going  to  have  all  this  money, 
360 


A  VISITOR 


you  might  want  to  change  your  mind  about  marrying  a 
forester  chap  who — who  just  wants  to  try  to  show  the 
trees  how  to  grow." 

"Peter!  Don't  make  fun  of  me.  Please.  And  you 
hurt  me  so  !"  she  reproached  him.  "You  know  I'll  never 
want  to  change  my  mind  ever,  ever — even  if  I  had  all  the 
money  in  the  world." 

He  laughed,  drew  her  face  down  to  his  and  whispered, 
"Beth,  dear.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  want  to — but  I  just 
wanted  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"Well,  I  have  said  it.  And  I  don't  want  you  ever  to 
say  such  a  thing  again.  As  if  I  cared  for  anythin' — any- 
thin'  but  you" 

He  kissed  her  on  the  lips  and  she  straightened. 

"I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  that  too,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

And  then,  after  a  silence  which  they  both  improved  by 
gazing  at  each  other  mutely,  "But  you  don't  seem  very 
curious  about  who  I  am." 

Beth  pressed  his  fingers  confidently.  What  he  was  to 
her  mattered  a  great  deal — and  she  realized  that  nothing 
else  did.  But  she  knew  that  something  was  required  of 
her.  And  so,  "Oh,  yes.  Indeed  I  am,  Peter, — awfully 
curious,"  she  said  politely. 

"Well,  you  know,  Beth,  I'm  not  really  so  poor  as  I 
seem  to  be.  I've  got  a  lot  of  securities  in  a  bank  in  Russia, 
because  nobody  knew  where  they  were  and  so  they  couldn't 
take  them." 

"And  they  would  have  taken  your  money  too?5* 

"Yes.  When  this  cousin  of  mine — his  name  was  Nich- 
olas— when  Nicholas  was  killed " 

"They  killed  him!    Who?" 

"The  Bolsheviki — they  killed  Nicholas  and  his  whole 
family — his  wife,  son  and  four  daughters " 

"Peter !"  Beth  started  up  and  stared  at  him  in  startled 
361 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


bewilderment,  as  she  remembered  the  talks  she  had  had 

with  him  about  the  Russian  Revolution.  "Nicholas !" 

she  gasped.  "His  wife — son — daughters.  He  had  the 
same  name  as — as  the  Czar — !"  And  as  her  gaze  met 
his  again  she  seemed  to  guess.  .  .  .  "Peter!"  she  gasped. 
"What— what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  it  was  the  Little  Father — the  Czar — 
who  was  my  cousin,  Beth." 

She  stared  at  Peter  in  awe  and  a  kind  of  fear  of  this 
new  element  in  their  relations. 

"And— and  you ?    You're ?" 

"I'm  just  Peter  Nichols ,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

"But  over  there " 

"I'm  nothing.  They  chucked  us  all  out,  the  Bolsheviki 
— every  last  one  of  us  that  had  a  handle  to  his  name." 

"A  handle ?" 

"Yes.  I  used  to  be  Grand  Duke  Peter  Nicholaevitch  of 
Lukovo  and  Galitzin " 

"G-Grand  Duke  Peter!"  she  whispered  in  a  daze.  And 
then,  "Oh — how — how  could  you?"  she  gasped. 

Peter  laughed. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Beth.  I  was  born  that — way.  But 
you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you?" 

"Forgive ?  Oh — it — it  makes  such  a  difference  to 

find — you're  not  you — but  somebody  else " 

"No.  I  am — me.  I'm  not  anybody  else.  But  I  had  to 
tell  you — sometime.  You  don't  think  any  the  less  of  me, 
do  you,  Beth?" 

"I — I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I'm  so — you're 
so " 

"What?" 

"Grand— and  I'm " 

Peter  caught  her  hands  and  made  her  look  at  him. 

"You're  the  only  woman  in  the  world  I've  ever  wanted 


A  VISITOR 


— the  only  one — and  you've  promised  me  you'd  marry  me 

— you've  promised,  Beth." 

Her  fingers  moved  gently  in  his  and  her  gaze,  wide-eyed, 

sought  his. 

"And  it  won't  make  any  difference ?" 

"No,  Beth.    Why  should  you  think  that?" 

"I — I  was  afraid — it  might,"  she  gasped.     And  then 

for  a  while  Peter  held  her  hands,  whispering,  while  Beth, 

still  abashed,  answered  in  monosyllables,  nodding  from 

time  to  time. 

Later  the  nurse  entered,  her  glance  on  her  wrist-watch. 
"Time's  up,"  she  said.  And  Beth  rose  as  one  in  a  dream 

and  moved  slowly  around  the  foot  of  the  bed  to  the  door. 
******* 

Jonathan  K.  McGuire  had  been  as  much  astonished  as 
Beth  at  the  revelation  of  Peter's  identity,  and  the  service 
that  Peter  had  rendered  him  made  him  more  than  anxious 
to  show  his  appreciation  by  doing  everything  he  could  for 
the  wounded  man's  comfort  and  happiness.  He  visited  the 
bedside  daily  and  told  Peter  of  his  conversation  with 
Beth,  and  of  the  plans  that  he  was  making  for  her  future 
— which  now,  it  seemed,  was  Peter's  future  also.  Peter 
told  him  something  of  his  own  history  and  how  he  had 
met  Jim  Coast  on  the  Bermudian.  Then  McGuire  re- 
lated the  story  of  the  suppression  of  the  outbreak  at  the 
lumber  camp  by  the  Sheriff  and  men  from  May's  Landing, 
and  the  arrest  of  Flynn  and  Jacobi  on  charges  of  assault 
and  incendiarism.  Some  of  the  men  were  to  be  deported 
as  dangerous  "Reds."  Brierly  had  been  temporarily  put 
in  charge  at  the  Mills  and  Jesse  Brown,  now  much  chas- 
tened, was  helping  McGuire  to  restore  order.  Shad  Wells 
was  technically  under  arrest,  for  the  coroner  had  "viewed" 
the  body  of  the  Russian  Committeeman  before  it  had  been 
removed  by  his  friends  and  buried,  and  taken  the  testi- 
mony. But  McGuire  had  given  bail  and  arranged  for  a 
363 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


hearing  both  as  to  the  shooting  of  and  the  death  of  Hawk 
Kennedy,  when  Peter  was  well  enough  to  go  to  May's 
Landing. 

The  death  of  Hawk  had  produced  a  remarkable  change 
in  the  character  and  personality  of  the  owner  of  the  Black 
Rock  Reserve.  His  back  was  straighter,  his  look  more 
direct,  and  he  entered  with  avidity  into  the  business  of 
bringing  order  out  of  the  chaos  that  had  resulted  from  the 
riot.  His  word  carried  some  weight,  his  money  more,  and 
with  the  completion  of  his  arrangements  with  Beth 
Cameron,  he  drew  again  the  breath  of  a  free  man. 

But  of  all  this  he  had  said  nothing  to  Peggy,  his  daugh- 
ter. He  had  neither  written  to  her  nor  telephoned,  for  he 
had  no  desire  that  she  should  know  more  than  the  obvious 
facts  as  to  the  death  of  Hawk  Kennedy,  for  conflicting 
reports  would  lead  to  questions.  Since  she  had  suspected 
nothing,  it  was  needless  to  bring  that  horror  to  her  notice, 
now  that  the  threat  had  passed.  McGuire  was  a  little 
afraid  of  his  colorful  daughter.  She  talked  too  much 
and  it  had  been  decided  that  nobody,  except  the  lawyer, 
Peter,  Beth  and  Mrs.  Bergen  should  know  the  source  of 
Beth's  sudden  and  unexpected  inheritance.  The  girl  had 
merely  fallen  heir  to  the  estate  of  her  father,  who  had 
died  many  years  before,  not  leaving  any  record  of  this 
daughter,  who  had  at  last  been  found.  All  of  which  was 
the  truth,  so  far  as  it  went,  and  was  enough  of  a  story  to 
tell  Peggy  when  he  should  see  her. 

But  Jonathan  McGuire  found  himself  somewhat  dis- 
turbed when  he  learned  one  morning  over  the  telephone 
that  Peggy  McGuire  and  a  guest  were  on  their  way  to 
Black  Rock  House  for  the  week-end.  The  message  came 
from  the  clerk  of  the  hotel,  and  since  Peggy  and  her 
friend  had  already  started  from  New  York,  he  knew  of 
no  way  to  intercept  them.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
make  the  best  of  the  situation.  Peter  had  the  best  guest 
364 


A  VISITOR 


room,  but  Beth  had  decided  the  day  before  to  return  "to 
the  cottage,  which  was  greatly  in  need  of  her  attention. 
And  so  McGuire  informed  Mrs.  Bergen  of  the  impending 
visit  and  gave  orders  that  Miss  Peggy's  room  and  a  room 
in  the  wing  should  be  prepared  for  the  newcomers. 

Beth  had  no  wish  to  meet  Peggy  McGuire  in  this  house 
after  the  scene  with  Peter  in  the  Cabin,  when  the  young 
lady  had  last  visited  Black  Rock,  for  that  encounter  had 
given  Beth  glimpses  of  the  kind  of  thoughts  beneath  the 
pretty  toques  and  cerise  veils  that  had  once  been  the  apple 
of  her  admiring  eyes.  But  as  luck  would  have  it,  as  Beth 
finished  her  afternoon's  visit  to  Peter's  bedside  and  hur- 
ried down  to  get  away  to  the  village  before  the  visitors 
arrived,  Miss  Peggy's  low  runabout  roared  up  to  the 
portico.  Beth's  first  impulse  was  to  draw  back  and  go 
out  through  the  kitchen,  but  the  glances  of  the  two  girls 
met,  Peggy's  in  instant  recognition.  And  so  Beth  tilted 
her  chin  and  walked  down  the  steps  just  beside  the  ma- 
chine, aware  of  an  elegantly  attired  lady  with  a  doll-like 
prettiness  who  sat  beside  Peggy,  oblivious  of  the  sharp 
invisible  daggers  which  shot  from  eye  to  eye. 

11  You  here!"  said  Peggy,  with  an  insulting  shrug. 

Beth  merely  went  her  way.  But  no  feminine  adept  of 
the  art  of  give  and  take  could  have  showed  a  more  per- 
fect example  of  studied  indifference  than  Beth  did.  It 
was  quite  true  that  her  cheeks  burned  as  she  went  down 
the  drive  and  that  she  wished  that  Peter  were  well  out  of 
the  house  so  long  as  Peggy  was  in  it. 

But  Peggy  McGuire  could  know  nothing  of  Beth's  feel- 
ings and  cared  not  at  all  what  she  thought  or  felt. 
Peggy  McGuire  was  too  much  concerned  with  the  impor- 
tance of  the  visitor  that  she  had  brought  with  her,  the 
first  live  princess  that  she  had  succeeded  in  bringing  into 
captivity.  But  Anastasie  Galitzin  had  not  missed  the 
365 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


little  by-play  and  inquired  with  some  amusement  as  to 
the  very  pretty  girl  who  had  come  out  of  the  house. 

"Oh — the  housekeeper's  niece,"  replied  Peggy,  in  her 
boarding  school  French.  "I  don't  like  her.  I  thought 
she'd  gone.  She's  been  having  a  petite  affaire  with  our 
new  forester  and  superintendent." 

Anastasie  Galitzin,  who  was  in  the  act  of  descending 
from  the  machine,  remained  poised  for  a  moment,  as  it 
were,  in  midair,  staring  at  her  hostess. 

"Ah!"  she  said.    "Vraiment!" 

By  this  time  the  noise  of  the  motor  had  brought  Stryker 
and  the  downstairs  maid  from  the  house,  and  in  the  con- 
fusion of  carrying  the  luggage  indoors,  the  conversation 
terminated.  It  was  not  until  Peggy's  noisy  greetings  to 
her  father  in  the  hallway  were  concluded  and  the  intro- 
duction of  her  nevr  guest  accomplished  that  Jonathan  Mc- 
Guire  was  permitted  to  tell  her  in  a  few  words  the  his- 
tory of  the  past  week,  and  of  the  injury  to  the  superin- 
tendent, who  lay  upstairs  in  the  room  of  the  guest  of 
honor. 

"H-m,"  sniffed  Peggy,  "I  don't  see  why  you  had  to 
bring  him  here!" 

"It's  a  long  story,  Peg,"  said  McGuire  calmly.  "I'll 
tell  you  presently.  Of  course  the  Princess  is  very  wel- 
come, but  I  couldn't  let  him  be  taken  anywhere  but  here, 
after  he'd  behaved  so  fine  all  through  the  rioting." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me,"  Peggy  began,  when  the  voice 
of  her  guest  cut  in  rather  sharply. 

"Pierre!"  gasped  Anastasie  sharply,  and  then,  in  her 
pretty  broken  English,  "You  say,  Monsieur,  it  is  he — 
Pe-ter  Nichols — who  'as  been  badly  'urt?" 

"Yes,   ma'am,   pretty   bad — shot   through   the   breast 

"Sainte  Vierge!" 

"But  he's  getting  on  all  right  now.     He'll  be  sitting 
366 


A  VISITOR 


up  in  a  day  or  so,  the  doctor  says.  Did  you  know  him, 
ma'am?" 

Anastasie  Galitzin  made  no  reply,  and  only  stared  at 
her  host,  breathing  with  some  difficulty.  Peggy,  who  had 
been  watching  her  startled  face,  found  herself  intensely 
curious.  But  as  she  would  have  questioned,  the  Princess 
recovered  herself  with  an  effort. 

"No — yes,  Monsieur.  It — it  is  nothing.  But  if  you 
please — I  should  like  to  go  at  once  to  my  room." 

And  Peggy  and  her  father,  both  of  them  much  mys- 
tified, led  the  way  up  the  stairs  and  to  the  room  that 
had  been  prepared  in  the  wing  of  the  house,  Stryker  fol- 
lowing with  the  bag  and  dressing  case. 

At  the  door  of  the  room  the  Princess  begged  Peggy 
to  excuse  her,  pleading  weariness,  and  so  the  astonished 
and  curious  hostess  was  forced  to  relinquish  her  latest 
social  conquest  and  seek  her  own  room,  there  to  medi- 
tate upon  the  extraordinary  thing  that  had  happened. 
Why  was  Anastasie  Galitzin  so  perturbed  at  learning  of 
the  wounds  of  Peter  Nichols?  What  did  it  all  mean? 
Had  she  known  him  somewhere  in  the  past — in  England 
— in  Russia?  What  was  he  to  her? 

But  in  a  moment  Jonathan  McGuire  joined  her  and 
revealed  the  identity  of  his  mysterious  forester  and  su- 
perintendent. At  first  Peggy  was  incredulous,  then  lis- 
tened while  her  father  told  a  story,  half  true,  half  fic- 
titious, which  had  been  carefully  planned  to  answer  all 
the  requirements  of  the  situation.  And  unaware  of  the 
cyclonic  disturbances  he  was  causing  in  the  breast  of  his 
only  child,  he  told  her  of  Beth  and  Peter,  and  of  the  evi- 
dences of  their  devotion  each  to  the  other  in  spite  of  their 
difference  in  station.  Peggy's  small  soul  squirmed  dur- 
ing the  recital,  but  she  only  listened  and  said  nothing. 
She  realized  that  in  a  situation  such  as  this  mere  words 
on  her  part  would  be  superfluous.  The  Grand  Duke 
367 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


Peter  Nicholaevitch !  Here  at  Black  Rock!  Her  pop's 
superintendent !  And  she  had  not  known.  She  had  even 
insulted  him.  It  was  hideous ! 

And  the  Princess?  The  deep  emotion  that  she  had 
shown  on  hearing  of  the  dangerous  wound  of  the  con- 
valescent was  now  explained.  But  only  partly  so.  The 
look  that  Peggy  had  surprised  in  Anastasie  Galitzin's 
face  meant  something  more  than  mere  solicitude  for  the 
safety  of  one  of  Russia's  banished  Grand  Dukes.  It  was 
the  Princess  who  had  been  shocked  at  the  information, 
but  it  was  the  woman  who  had  showed  pain.  Was  there 
— had  there  ever  been — anything  between  Anastasie 
Galitzin  and  this — this  Peter  Nichols? 

Facts  about  the  early  stages  of  her  acquaintanceship 
with  Anastasie  Galitzin  now  loomed  up  with  an  unpleasant 
definiteness.  She  had  been  much  flattered  that  so  impor- 
tant a  personage  had  shown  her  such  distinguished  marks 
of  favor  and  had  rejoiced  in  the  celerity  with  which  the 
intimacy  had  been  established.  The  thought  that  the 
Princess  Galitzin  had  known  all  the  while  that  the  Grand 
Duke  was  living  incognito  at  Black  Rock  and  had  merely 
used  Peggy  as  a  means  to  bring  about  this  visit  was  not 
a  pleasant  one  to  Peggy.  But  the  fact  was  now  quite 
obvious.  She  had  been  making  a  convenience  of  her.  And 
what  was  now  to  be  the  result  of  this  visit?  The  Princess 
did  not  yet  know  of  the  engagement  of  His  Highness  to 
the  scullery  maid.  Who  was  to  tell  her? 

The  snobbish  little  heart  of  Peggy  McGuire  later 
gained  some  consolation,  for  Anastasie  Galitzin  emerged 
from  her  room  refreshed  and  invigorated,  and  lent  mucli 
grace  to  the  dinner  table,  telling  father  and  daughter 
something  of  the  early  life  of  the  convalescent,  exhibiting 
a  warm  friendship  which  could  be  satisfied  with  nothing 
less  than  a  visit  on  the  morrow  to  the  sick-room.  And 
His  Highness  now  very  much  on  the  mend,  sent  word, 
368 


A  riSITOR 


with  the  doctor's  permission,  that  he  would  be  charmed 
to  receive  the  Princess  Galitzin  at  ten  in  the  morning. 
What  happened  in  the  room  of  the  convalescent  was 
never  related  to  Peggy  McGuire.  But  Anastasie  emerged 
with  her  head  erect,  her  pretty  face  wearing  the  fixed 
smile  of  the  eternally  bored.  And  then  she  told  Peggy 
that  she  had  decided  to  return  to  New  York.  So  after 
packing  her  belongings,  she  got  into  Peggy's  car  and 
was  driven  much  against  the  will  of  her  hostess  to  the 
Bergen  cottage.  Peggy  wouldn't  get  out  of  the  car  but 
Anastasie  went  to  the  door  and  knocked.  Beth  came  out 
with  her  sleeves  rolled  above  her  elbows,  her  fingers  covered 
with  flour.  The  Princess  Galitzin  vanished  inside  and  the 
door  was  closed.  Her  call  lasted  ten  minutes  while  Peggy 
cooled  her  heels.  But  whether  the  visit  had  been  prompted 
by  goodness  of  heart  or  whether  by  a  curiosity  to  study 
the  lady  of  Peter's  choice  at  close  range,  no  one  will  ever 
know.  Beth  was  very  polite  to  her  and  though  she 
identified  her  without  difficulty  as  the  heliotrope-envelope 
lady,  she  offered  her  some  of  the  "cookies"  that  she  had 
made  for  Peter,  and  expressed  the  warmest  thanks  for 
her  kind  wishes.  She  saw  Anastasie  Galitzin  to  the  door, 
marking  her  heightened  color  and  wondering  what  her 
fur  coat  had  cost.  Beth  couldn't  help  thinking,  what- 
ever her  motive  in  coming,  that  the  Princess  Galitzin  was 
a  very  beautiful  lady  and  that  her  manners  had  been 
lovely.  But  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  she  saw  the 
red  car  vanish  down  the  road  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

******* 

His  convalescence  begun,  Peter  recovered  rapidly  and  in 
three  weeks  more  he  was  himself  again.  In  those  three 
weeks  many  interesting  things  had  happened. 

Jonathan  K.  McGuire  had  held  a  series  of  important 
conferences  with  Peter  and  Mrs.  Bergen  who  seemed  to 
have  grown  ten  years  younger.  And  one  fine  day  after  a 
369 


THE  VAGRANT  DUKE 


protracted  visit  to  New  York  with  Mrs.  Berg-en,  he  re- 
turned laden  with  mysterious  packages  and  boxes,  and 
stopped  at  the  door  of  the  cottage,  where  Peter  was  tak- 
ing a  lunch  of  Beth's  cooking. 

It  was  a  beautiful  surprise.  Mrs.  Bergen  whispered  in 
Beth's  ear  and  Beth  followed  her  into  the  kitchen,  where 
the  contents  of  one  or  two  of  the  boxes  were  exposed  to 
Beth's  astonished  gaze.  Peter,  of  course,  being  in  the 
secret,  kept  aloof,  awaiting  the  result  of  Mrs.  Bergen's 
disclosures.  But  when  Beth  came  back  into  the  plush- 
covered  parlor,  he  revealed  his  share  in  the  conspiracy  by 
producing,  with  the  skill  of  a  conjurer  taking  a  rabbit 
from  a  silk  hat,  a  minister  and  a  marriage  license,  the 
former  having  been  hidden  in  the  house  of  a  neighbor. 
And  Jonathan  K.  McGuire,  with  something  of  an  air, 
fully  justified  by  the  difficulties  he  had  been  at  to  secure 
it,  produced  a  pasteboard  box,  which  contained  another 
box  of  beautiful  white  velvet,  which  he  opened  with  pride, 
exhibiting  its  contents.  On  the  soft  satin  lining  was  a 
brooch,  containing  a  ruby  as  large  as  Beth's  thumbnail. 

With  a  gasp  of  joy,  she  gazed  at  it,  for  she  knew  just 
what  it  was,  the  family  jewel  that  had  been  sold  to  the 
purser  of  the  Bermudtan.  And  then  she  threw  her  arms 

around  McGuire's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

******* 

Some  weeks  later  Beth  and  Peter  sat  at  dusk  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Black  Rock  House,  for  McGuire  had 
turned  the  whole  place  over  to  them  for  the  honeymoon. 
The  night  was  chilly,  a  few  flakes  of  snow  had  fallen 
during  the  afternoon,  so  a  log  fire  burned  in  the  fire- 
place. Peter  sat  at  the  piano  playing  the  "Romance"  of 
Sibelius,  for  which  Beth  had  asked,  but  when  it  was 
finished,  his  fingers,  impelled  by  a  thought  beyond  his 
own  control,  began  the  opening  rumble  of  the  "Revolu- 
tionary fitude."  The  music  was  familiar  to  Beth  and  it 
370 


A  VISITOR 


stirred  her  always  because  it  was  this  gorgeous  plaint  of 
hope  and  despair  that  had  at  the  very  first  sounded  depths 
in  her  own  self  the  existence  of  which  she  had  never  even 
dreamed.  But  to-night  Peter  played  it  as  she  had  never 
heard  him  play  it  before,  with  all  his  soul  at  his  finger 
tips.  And  she  watched  his  downcast  profile  as  he  stared 
at  vacancy  while  he  played.  It  was  in  moments  like  these 
that  Beth  felt  herself  groping  in  the  dark  after  him,  he 
was  so  far  away.  And  yet  she  was  not  afraid,  for  she 
knew  that  out  of  the  dreams  and  mysticism  of  the  half 
of  him  that  was  Russian  he  would  come  back  to  her, — just 
Peter  Nichols. 

He  did  presently,  when  his  hands  fell  upon  the  last 
chords  and  he  sat  with  head  still  bowed  until  the  last, 
tremor  had  died.  Then  he  rose  and  turned  to  her.  She 
smiled  at  him  and  he  joined  her  on  the  divan.  Their 
fingers  intertwined  and  they  sat  for  a  long  moment  look- 
ing into  the  fire.  But  Beth  knew  of  what  he  was  thinking 
and  Peter  knew  that  she  knew.  Their  honeymoon  was 
over.  There  was  work  to  do  in  the  world. 


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